


You Can Call Me James

by shreddedpatches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Possessive Behavior, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shreddedpatches/pseuds/shreddedpatches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard and James were separated when they were seven years old.  Twenty years later, they meet on the streets of London under circumstances neither could have anticipated.  Now Jim is taking care of the broken shell of the brother he remembers, and Richard has no idea what kind of monster his twin has become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

January was a vacuum, the empty space left behind when the Christmas cheer dissipated. It was storefronts packing up their happy little lights and flashy fat men in red suits, families with too little realizing they had spent too much to make their little ones happy for just one day, the passage of time dragging a reluctant world into a new year it didn’t want.

Murder rates were high in January, and for this reason alone Jim thought he should appreciate it. He didn’t, though; the silent streets and empty sidewalks reminded him that his own mind was a vacuum, and the things that swept in when it was otherwise unoccupied didn’t play nice at all.

He had tried to occupy himself today, he really had. He had bothered to grace the lowly maggots that constituted his network with his presence at a meeting, something that really didn’t happen often. They should have been grateful, even if he had only announced himself as the voice of their employer, not Moriarty himself. They should have just sensed that he was a god and they were bacteria and his word was law.

But they hadn’t. The meeting was a disaster, and sure wasn’t _his_ fault: this newest branch didn’t seem to understand that they had been fully appropriated and, consequently, no longer worked for themselves. They had the gall to speak out against him—as though they actually thought they understood organized crime better than he did. Now operations were set back two weeks, and this particular client was _very_ impatient.

As he walked home from his favorite Italian joint, Jim texted an order for Johnson’s abduction. He’d like to make an example of the man. Maybe if Scotland Yard found his body burned to bits and dangling from a flagpole, his underlings would get the message. Miss Reified, however, would require more discretion. He’d set her death up to look like a suicide; after having one of his men stalk her for a month, the police would find ample motivation for her apparent actions.

But neither project could fill him up right now. With each step carrying him closer and closer to his flat, Jim found himself more terrified of the possibility of finding himself alone in his room with _nothing_. Nothing to do, no one to hurt, no one to kill but himself, and he wasn’t ready for that, not yet. But maybe it didn’t matter, not if it silenced his mind.

There was a gentle coughing up ahead, and a form emerged from the shadows of the corner of the street. Between the clouded sky and the closed shops, very little light was left to help make the figure out, but Jim could tell it was a young man—younger than him, if the way he hung his head and shoulders—without confidence or hope, the byproduct of a broken home—was anything to go by. His coat was two sizes too large and wearing thin at the elbows, and his gloves were useless, their woolen fibers so thick with the mist that hung in the air that his hands would probably be warmer without their protection.

If Jim had a stronger moral compass, he might have told the kid to get lost, or directed him to the nearest homeless shelter so he could sleep with a roof over his head for the night without selling his body. Instead, he slipped his hands into his pockets and approached the boy slowly—no use in letting his prey run away, after all—while letting the irritation and bitterness fade from his eyes.

When he was a little more than two feet from him, he mimicked the boy’s posture and murmured, “If I take you home with me, will you give me a good time?” He kept his voice gentle; after all, it didn’t cost anything to be kind, and it was always so much more fun when he gained their trust—the look of surprise on their faces when he dug the knife into their throat was better than the sex.

The boy nodded, adding “I don’t cost much” without meeting Jim’s eyes. His voice was soft and broken, and, like Jim’s own, laced with a brogue he couldn’t quite conceal. He was trembling and wringing his hands with a force that just wasn’t justified by the cold. Jim almost felt sorry for him, and he certainly didn’t want to fuck and kill something that was terrified of him (if he wanted that, he would select one of his employees at random), so he put his hand around the boy’s shoulder, trying to get him to relax.

“I live this way,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “and there’s a coffee shop a few blocks down that’s open twenty-four hours. I was thinking we could stop there, get something warm in you.”

“You—you’d do that?” the boy stuttered, looking up not quite towards Jim, but in his general direction.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” When the boy didn’t respond, Jim tried prompting him with something else. “You’re so nervous. Is this your first time?”

“No.” The voice was quiet and sad and filled with self-hate. “You, um…you might want to, you know. Use protection.”

Jim nodded. “I understand. I’ve got some at my place.” He ran his hand up and down the boy’s arm, trying to warm him, trying to make him feel less afraid.

“Okay.” The boy hesitated for a moment, then: “Is it…alright if I…um…”

“Stay after? I don’t mind. You can leave in the morning and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge as long as you make me breakfast.” It was a lie, of course; the kid wouldn’t live to see the morning. Hell, he was probably going to be dead in less than three hours, his intestines splayed all over the duvet. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

Jim chuckled. Actually, in this case, what he didn’t know _would_ kill him.

“…Thank you,” the boy said finally, and the sincerity of it almost dredged up sympathy in Jim’s heart. He didn’t _need_ to kill this boy. He could be true to his word, let him sleep on the couch, feed him, and send him away.

But then Jim reminded himself that this boy wasn’t having fun, that his life was inevitably going nowhere, and even if he didn’t realize it, he was better off dead. Really, Jim was doing him a favor. It wasn’t murder, it was mercy.

The light of the café illuminated the pavement up ahead, and Jim decided that before he bought this kid a drink, he might as well ask: “So what’s your name?”

“It’s Richard,” he muttered glumly.

He might have said something else—returned the question, maybe—but Jim didn’t hear it; he was too busy stumbling backwards in shock, his nice-albeit-somewhat-horny persona forgotten in the wake of confusion. “ _Excuse_ me?” He shoved the boy against the wall, terrified that he would run away if he wasn’t holding him down. “Richard?”

In the cast-off glow of the coffee shop, it was painfully obvious that this wasn’t quite a boy, that his face was identical to Jim’s (minus his expression—screaming _please don’t hurt me_ ). Suddenly it was Jim who was trembling, and his voice shook when he repeated his brother’s name again, in a voice thick with awe and reverence and relief.

Richard had never been as sharp as his brother, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what was going on when he looked at his client for the first time. “…James? Oh my God, James, I thought I’d never see you again.”

“ _Richard_ ,” Jim breathed, and his arms went from pinning Richard against the brick to wrapping themselves around his waist and just holding him. His face was pressed into his brother’s shabby coat, and he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t, because he was Jim _fucking_ Moriarty, boss of the criminal underworld, and he _didn’t fucking cry_ —

_I was taking you home to fuck you into the mattress and watch the life bleed out of you. And then fuck you some more._

_Shit, Richard. I’m so sorry._

***

“Richard, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you working a corner?”

They were sitting in the back of the Jag, sinking into the leather seats and nursing a cup of hot chocolate each while the driver earned his paycheck and didn’t ask any questions. Richard had had to order the drinks; Jim had been so upset that he had barely been able to fist out the money to pay for them. Even though it had been over twenty years, Richard still remembered that Jim preferred peppermint syrup in his cocoa; Jim, on the other hand, had just learned (relearned?) that Richard liked his with extra whipped cream, and was hanging onto this trivial piece of information like it was a lifeline.

“James, if you don’t mind _me_ asking, why were you picking up a prostitute?”

“Correction: I was taking a prostitute out for coffee because he looked cold. Are you really judging me for that?” Jim replied indignantly.

Richard laughed and took another sip of his drink. “I specifically remember you asking me if I was going to ‘give you a good time.’ James, that can really only mean one thing.”

“Well you know what? Maybe I am so lonely and friendless that I am willing to pay a sex worker to play Parcheesi with me all night.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days? ‘Parcheesi?’ I feel like Monopoly would be a better euphemism.”

“Oh, can it,” Jim grumbled, exasperated that his brother was outsassing him. “You know what? When we get home we are going to play Parcheesi and Battleship and Sorry and Monopoly and Clue and Scrabble and Uno and Chess and Jenga and Risk and Chutes and Ladders until you pass out from exhaustion.”

“Okay, I _think_ I know what Chutes and Ladders means, but I’m lost on the rest of them.”

“Oh my God, Richard. They’re board games.”

Richard laughed again. “I know. So, what do you do? To, like, have enough to have a chauffeur drive you around and everything?”

Jim gulped. This was the conversation he had wanted to avoid. _I do bad things, Richard, very bad things. If you subscribe to a moral code, that is. I choose not to. Does that_ disgust _you, brother-mine?_

“I’m a consultant,” he said smoothly, hoping that by not elaborating, Richard would be deterred from asking too many questions.

It didn’t really work; Richard scrunched his eyebrows and asked, “So, like, with legal things? Are you a lawyer?”

“Some of it involves the law, yes.” When Richard kept looking at him expectantly, his wide eyes pulling at something in Jim’s gut, he found himself elaborating. “Some of the work is private. Some of it concerns the public.”

“And, then…who are your clients?”

Jim shrugged. “Individuals, usually. Occasionally groups. Sometimes even governments, but you’ll never hear them admit it.”

“Governments?”

Jim couldn’t help but smile at the awe in Richard’s voice. “Yes. Even _governments_ will come beg me to fix it for them.”

“You must be really important,” Richard whispered. “Why haven’t I heard of you, then?”

“You should be glad you haven’t heard of me,” Jim muttered, looking out the window. He took a sip of his drink. Then another.

“You don’t want to talk about your work,” Richard said finally. Jim nodded, continuing to look out the window. “Do you not like what you do?”

“That’s not it at all, Richard,” Jim said quietly, and he turned and looked his brother in the eyes, locking him in a stare that, for the first time since Richard recognized his brother, made him feel hollow and uncomfortable. “I love it.”

When he looked away again, Richard had the audacity to fill the silence by reaching across the seat and placing his hand on top of Jim’s before he spoke again. “James, I’m so happy I found you. I—"

“I go by Jim now.”

The words were sharper than Jim meant them to be, and Richard pulled his hand away instantly, placing it back in his lap and staring down at his cup. “I’m sorry. _Jim_ , I’m so happy you found me, and I’m really sorry if I upset you by talking about work. Heck,” Richard chuckled, “I understand better than anyone why you might not want to talk about _work_.

“I just want you to know that I missed you so much and I love you and I don’t want to lose you again and—"

This time Richard was crying, his tears sliding silently down his face. His lips were trembling, and he was trying to control them by biting into them.

And this time Jim was the one to reach across the seat and take his brother’s hand in his own. “Richard, it’s okay. It’s okay. There is no _fucking way_ I am ever letting you out of my sight, do you hear me? It’s going to be okay.”

If Richard knew the man his brother had become, the words might have scared him, but he didn’t know, and so the words were exactly what he needed to hear. His tears fell faster, and he let out gasps and sobs, but they were the gasps and sobs of relief, the kind one can’t keep bottled up inside.

“James—I—love—you,” he said, each word a struggle to squeeze out between the quaking of his body. It became a chant, the only thing grounding him to reality. “I love you I love you I love you I love you—ˮ

Jim found himself smiling and squeezing his brother’s hand a little tighter—not because he wanted to, of course. It was pure instinct, something he couldn’t control. “I love you too,” he whispered, and Richard seemed to calm down, shuddering a little less at each deep exhale.


	2. Penthouse

“You live here?”  Richard asked, voice once again small in subservient wonder.

“On the top floor.  I own the building.” 

Jim pressed his thumb to the scanner next to his private lift, and the door slid open.  Richard watched, dumbstruck.  “I thought they only had those things in movies.”

Jim laughed.  “I wonder if you can work the scanner.  What if my biggest security breach turns out to be my little brother?”

The penthouse straddled the gap between luxurious and elegant, between bold and understated.  Richard felt like he was stepping onto the set of a photoshoot for an architectural magazine.  He knew he didn’t belong, and yet when Jim flipped the switch and the warm lighting set the living room aglow, a lurching feeling in his gut like he hadn’t felt in years—a desperation, a physical _need_ to belong—overcame him.

“It’s beautiful.” 

He wobbled forwards in a daze, and suddenly Jim’s hands were on him, pulling him backwards.  “Not on the carpet!  Not on the—Richard, take your shoes off, please.  And your socks.  Actually, take everything off.  Strip.  Right here.”  Jim was pacing a little frantically, waving his arms around as he spoke.  “I’ll go get you…something else to wear…”

And with that, he disappeared through the living room and down a hallway, leaving Richard with no choice but to obey the command.

Even while working as a whore, Richard had never grown comfortable with removing his clothes out of the safety of darkness.  He knew how ugly he was when he bared his skin—a scrawny little thing covered in scars, they told him, and the only reason they kept coming back was his ass was just _so_ tight and he knew how to scream _just_ right. 

Richard did not want to take off his clothes in front of his brother.  He did not want to show his weakness.  But if there was one thing Richard had never been able to do, it was disobey a direct order.

When he finished undressing, he held his clothes in a tight bundle close to his chest and curled up next to the door.  Despite the warmth of the room, he was shivering.  He really hoped Jim would hurry up.

Jim returned cradling a plush housecoat and a pair of white rabbit slippers Richard wouldn’t have expected someone so successful to own.  He had exchanged his fitted suit for much more casual fare: a black v-neck tee that was a little too tight and unused grey sweatpants that were a little too loose. 

He dumped his offerings next to Richard and verbally demanded the pile of Richard’s old clothes while forcefully pulling them from his arms.  Richard did his best to scurry from his brother’s gaze and don the housecoat before he _saw_ , before he _asked_ , before he said something horrible like—

“Richard, why are you in lady’s underwear?”

He couldn’t tie the housecoat around his waist fast enough.  Once again, he was looking everywhere that wasn’t Jim, unable to meet his eyes.  God, the answer was obvious, wasn’t it?  Why’d he have to go and _say_ something about it?

“Richard,” Jim asked again, his voice less accusatory, “why are you in lady’s underwear?”

“Because they _liked_ it, okay?!” he cried.  He felt like he was going to explode.  “‘Oh, look at you, so small, so scared.  Are you even old enough to fuck?  Oh, baby, did you wear those for daddy?  You know how much I like it when you dress like a little slut.  Now put your filthy lips around my dick and suck.’”

His twin’s outburst left Jim, for once in his life, grasping for words.  “Richard, I’m…sorry.”

Richard bit his lip again and pulled his arms closer to him.  He needed to calm down.  It was his own fault that he couldn’t hold a regular job, his fault that he ended up a whore, and if it was his fault he had absolutely no right to throw some pity-party in front of his brother.  “It’s not your fault, so don’t apologize,” he said bitterly. 

“I’m never going to let them touch you again.”  There was something so dark in the words that Richard finally looked at his brother; even while holding the pile of Richard’s dirty clothes, he looked absolutely menacing. 

And then it was gone, like he had peeled off a mask.  Jim smiled, then turned around and started walking away; Richard found himself compelled to follow, not wanting to be left alone again.  “Do you want to eat something or take a bath first?”

“Could we eat first?  I haven’t eaten in—I haven’t eaten today.”

Jim halted like he had received a physical blow before hurrying to the kitchen.  Richard followed in hot pursuit, bunny slippers flapping noisily against the kitchen floor.

Upon entering the room, Jim walked over to the cabinet under the sink, opened it to reveal a garbage can, and promptly dumped all of Richard’s clothes inside.  The bulk of the coat was too much for the garbage can and spewed out over the sides, so Jim spent a moment compacting it back in before slamming the cabinet door like he was making some point.

“Um, excuse me,” Richard said, a little miffed.  “Those are _my clothes_.”

“Those are homeless person clothes,” Jim stated, using the voice teachers use when they talk to especially…challenged students.  He then headed towards the fridge, signaling he was done discussing the matter by turning his back.

“I _am_ a homeless person, Jim,” Richard insisted.  Gosh darn it, Jim couldn’t just throw literally _all_ his belongings in the trash just because he’s some multibillionaire with a chauffeur and a penthouse and everything.

“No you aren’t, Richard,” Jim countered quickly.  “You live here now.  That’s not up for debate.”  He pulled out a package of frozen macaroni and cheese from the freezer and set it between them on the island.  “This is all I have as far as comfort food goes.  I don’t cook a lot; usually I just order takeaways, so there really aren’t a lot of options.”

“That’s…perfect,” Richard said, staring at the box like he was going to shove the whole thing in his mouth before it was defrosted in the microwave.  Jim nodded and went about warming the dish while Richard fished around for silverware, wanting to look like he was doing something, wanting to look like he wasn’t _completely helpless_ , when he remembered:

“James, I need to—ˮ

Jim turned towards him and blinked; Richard quickly realized his mistake.  “Sorry, Jim.  Um.  I need to get my…get my medication out of my coat.”

“Your medication?”

“Yeah,” Richard sighed.  “You know, my inhaler.  And, um, I’ve been taking Xanax.  Look—can I just have them?”

“Of course,” Jim said gently, pulling the coat out of the garbage himself.  Richard quickly fished through the pockets before pulling out the thick blue hunk of plastic and its orange companion. 

“Where should I…put them?  If I’m moving in, you know.”

The microwave beeped; Richard gripped his medication tighter and tried to act like the sound didn’t affect him.  Jim took the dish out and set it on the island, pulling up an extra stool and commanding, “You’re going to eat all of that, do you understand?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Richard remarked, still clutching the pill bottle.  “It’s a lot of food.”

“It really isn’t,” Jim replied lazily, nudging the warm, cheesy mush closer to his brother.

“It _is_ ,” Richard insisted, his tone far more aggressive than what he had known himself to be capable of.  He immediately regretted it: “I’m sorry, James.”

“Jim.”

“ _Jim._   I don’t…know if I can get used to that.  I’m sorry.  I’m trying.  Anyway, I’ll eat it all, I promise.”  He stared at the steaming dish and couldn’t fathom how he was supposed to actually put it in his mouth and swallow.  There was just…so much of it.  He clutched the orange bottle until his knuckles were white.

“What you don’t finish tonight you can have later,” Jim said softly, his hands reaching over to pry Richard’s fingers off the pill bottle.  “I’ll go put these in the bathroom.  Looks like you could use a refill,” he observed, shaking the bottle to emphasize there were only two pills left.  

“I—yeah, that’d be lovely,” Richard nodded, finally taking his meal into his mouth.  Instantly he was floored with a wave of nostalgia only a childhood favorite could trigger.  He was five again, when everything was safe and okay, before Ma was in the hospital, before James kept bringing home dead animals and yelling things that didn’t make sense, before Daddy realized he liked the look of his own son sucking his cock better than that of a new woman. 

He was so busy just enjoying the way the memories washed over him like a blanket that he almost missed the things his brother was saying: “After you finish that we’ll go take a bath, and it will be just like when we were kids, and then we’ll go to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll call in your prescription first thing and we’ll go pick it up and we’ll go shopping and you’ll get a haircut and a manicure and we’ll play all the board games and we’ll take a bubble bath and it’s going to be perfect, Richard, so perfect, I promise.” 

It was so like his old rambling that perhaps it should have concerned Richard, but Richard couldn’t bring himself to notice or care; instead, he let himself melt into the hands running through his hair as his brother patiently stood guard, waiting for him to finish his meal.


	3. Scars

The bathroom was just like the rest of the house.  Richard couldn’t wrap his head around how much the marble slabs coating the floor and some of the walls must have cost.  The window behind the bathtub stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and he had to ask: “Can’t people…see you from out there?”

“No.  We’re too high up.”  Jim had undressed and was sitting in the tub, head tilted back and resting on its edge as it slowly filled with water.  Richard couldn’t help but look at his brother; they had looked identical, once, but now…Richard thought Jim looked perfect, his muscles lean and understated, the body type he preferred in his partners, if…if Richard got to choose his partners, of course.  And it wasn’t like he was thinking about Jim like…that.  But oh, God, it was so painfully _obvious_ that he was so _inferior_ to his brother, because what was he?  Just some sack of bones, nothing on him. 

“If you stand there all night, the water’ll get cold.”

Richard started.  “I…um.  Do I have to take off my clothes?” 

Jim tilted his head to the side, once again speaking in that tone that made Richard feel so, so stupid.  “We’re identical twins, Richie; I know what you look like naked.  And I already saw you stripped down earlier.  Get in the tub.”

It sure didn’t sound like he was getting out of it.  Richard nodded in resignation before asking (doing his best to keep that naturally pleading tone out of his voice) if “J-Jim could you please turn around?”

The water in the tub sloshed as Jim turned to face the window.  Richard had shrugged out of the housecoat and pushed off the bunny slippers, wallowing in the shame of his nakedness, when Jim spoke, taking him by surprise.

“You don’t need to be ashamed of them, Richard.”

“Wh—what?”  He found himself scrambling to pick the housecoat off the ground, using it to cover the…less savory parts of his body. 

“The marks on your legs.  I already saw them,” Jim said as he turned around, now casually leaning against the edge of the tub closest to his brother.  The matter-of-factness of his tone _killed_ Richard.  “I have my own, if that makes you feel any better.  If you come here I can show them to you.”

Something about Jim’s skin being anything less than perfect made Richard’s stomach reel.  It had taken a whole lot of shit to push Richard to the point of turning the blade against his own skin; he didn’t want to imagine that his brother had ever experienced anything like it. 

“They’re not as pretty as yours, but—”

“ _Pretty_?  James—Jim, these _things_ on my legs are not _pretty_.  Don’t even try to—”

“I’m sorry; I misspoke.”  Jim’s voice was quick and quiet, moving like it intended to erase the mistake he had so foolishly let fall from his lips.  “I meant—don’t look at me like that; come and get in the tub right now—I meant that…how do I put this… they’re a visual representation of how much pain you’ve experienced.” 

He paused, waiting for approval, before tacking on, “It’s that you’ve managed to get through that hurting that’s beautiful, Richard.  Mine aren’t anything like that.  That’s all I meant.”  And there was something in his voice that finally made Richard let his guard down, throwing modesty to the wind and entering the tub with his brother.

***

Richard discovered it wasn’t a bathtub after he was finally lured inside.  It was a Jacuzzi.  The throbbing, pulsating feeling emanating from every side of the bath was heaven on Richard’s skin; he couldn’t hold back the weak whimpers as he melted into the water, completely relaxed for the first time in forever.

“This is the best thing _ever_ ,” he moaned, a little pathetically.  He was beyond the point of worrying about that, though.  This was bliss. 

“And to think you were reluctant to get in,” Jim mused, squeezing an excessive dollop of shampoo into his hands and slowly lathering it through Richard’s hair. 

“I can wash my own hair,” Richard said, but it was apparent from his tone and the way he was leaning into the gentle massaging on his scalp that he really didn’t _want_ to do the job himself.  

“ _Really_ ,” Jim said, amused.  Then, pulling strands of Richard’s hair through his fingers, he stated, “Honey, you need a haircut.”

“I like the length of my hair,” Richard protested, a small frown working its way onto his face despite the hot tub jets.

“It’s almost six centimeters in places.  Don’t worry, we’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“J—Jim—”

“ _Not_ up for debate.”  The sentence was punctuated by the strong tug in Richard’s hair, dangling on the threshold of painful.

When the bubbling of the bath dissolved the tension once again, Richard worked up the courage to ask the question that had been sitting in the back of his mouth all night.  “…So what happened to you?”

“Do you mean—”

“After Da—”

“ _Threw me away?_ ”  Jim hadn’t meant to sound so angry; he had gotten over it a long time ago.  Really.  “Sorry, Rich.  It’s…not you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Richard murmured.  He turned to face Jim, hoping that by looking directly at him, his brother would be more likely to open up.  The soap suds were making his hair stick up, and in the shadow of his brother, he felt like a dumb little kid with a shampoo Mohawk, out of place and asking questions much too big for him to handle.

“They sort of tossed me from one place to another for the first few years,” Jim said finally.  “The foster care system is…really fucked up.”  _And I’m even more fucked up._   “I found one family that liked me enough eventually, though.”

“Oh, thank God,” Richard whispered.  “I was…really worried.”

“The dad was brilliant; he specialized in botox, back when it was still used primarily for therapy.  He loved his work, would go on and on about it for hours—and I loved listening to it, more than his wife did, or his kid.”

Richard grinned, a sad, half-forced motion.  “He sounds wonderful.  Perfect.”

Jim nodded, eyes filled with something Richard couldn’t read.  “The son didn’t like me very much.  But eventually I…he stopped bothering me.”

“What changed?”

“I…” Jim swallowed.  “He drowned in a swimming pool.”

“ _What?_   J-Jim, that’s horrible.”

“It was,” Jim agreed quickly.  “It was hard for all of us, but his mom took it the worst.  It turned out okay, though.  The mom had had a surgery that left her unable to have another child when Carl was…I think he was four, so they ended up adopting me instead.  I…don’t know if I would be where I am now if it wasn’t for them.”

“Can I meet them?”  Richard asked, voice filled with hope.  Maybe Jim’s new family could adopt him, too.  In spirit, of course.

Jim’s face grew dark.  “No.  They died in a freak vehicular accident when I was at university.”

“Oh my God,” Richard said quickly, more to himself than his brother.  “James, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  Jim shrugged, his face empty.  For a moment, the only sound was the frantic bubbling of the tub’s jets.  “So then…what happened to you?”

Richard gulped.  “Look, I know this isn’t really fair, but…do you think maybe we could talk about that some other time?  I don’t really want to discuss it right now.”

“That’s fine,” Jim agreed, reaching across to rub his brother’s shoulder.  “Maybe tomorrow, yes?”

“Maybe,” Richard replied quietly.  He’d rather not talk about it ever.  His brother just…didn’t _need_ to know what had happened to him after he was left all alone in a house with only his father.

At the same time, Richard was just dying to tell someone.  _Anyone_.  And if he couldn’t trust his brother with the worst parts of him, who _could_ he trust?  As Jim smoothed the shampoo out of his hair and left to bring him back a plush towel and plusher pajamas while he sat in the warmth of the draining tub, Richard was lulled back into a sense of childhood safety. It was a simple equation: James would protect and provide for him as long as he gave his love freely. 

And he could give his love freely, because he couldn’t imagine a safer place in the whole world than that bathroom, twice-wrapped in a towel and his brother’s gentle arms.  Regardless of what had happened to them both, one thing, he concluded, had remained constant: Richard loved his brother with everything he had, and James loved him back just as fiercely.


	4. You Can Call Me James

Bath time over, Jim exited the room without even pausing to tell Richard what was going on.  Richard followed, because standing around just didn’t seem like the right thing to do, but found himself standing anyway, trapped in a doorway after his brother had entered what appeared to be his bedroom.  Jim had slid into the extravagant bed and was staring at Richard through a ridiculous pile of thick, fluffy sheets when he said, “What are you standing around for?”

“…Where do you want me to sleep?” Richard asked. 

Jim squinted at him, evaluating Richard’s intelligence for the third (and hopefully last) time that night.  “In here, doofus.”

“Huh?  James—sorry, Jim, I can take the guest room.  I really don’t mind.”

“I don’t _have_ a guest room.  Now shut up and get in bed; just looking at you is making me cold.”

It was Richard’s turn to squint at his brother in confusion.  “Jim, this house is huge.  Why don’t you have a guest room?”

“What would I need a guest room for?”  Jim’s voice dropped low in a way Richard didn’t really like.

“I dunno…for like, if you had people over?  And they were…I dunno.  Guests.  For guests.”

“The guests I have aren’t the kinds of people I want in my house overnight, Richard.”

 _What is_ that _supposed to mean?_   Richard blinked and pushed the thought away, instead pushing forward with, “Well, okay…if you don’t have a guest room, I could sleep on the sofa.”

“Absolutely not.  Richard, please.  It will be like when we were kids, remember?”

He _did_ remember.  Waking up was always the worst part of the nightmares because he could recall a time when Jim had been right there to fight them off.  And so he found himself walking over and crawling into the bed with his brother, even though he knew it was a little strange, even though he knew that wasn’t the sort of thing that adults _did_ with their kin. 

 _It’s not_ that _wrong_ , he quickly decided after he had climbed in and folded the covers over himself, _not compared to the other beds I’ve slept in_.  No, it wasn’t wrong at all.  What could ever be wrong about bed sheets this warm and soft?  It was like being wrapped up in an enormous hug.

Wait.  No.  He _was_ wrapped in a hug—he had been so distracted by the comfort of the sheets that he hadn’t noticed his brother’s arm wrapping around him and pulling him closer in a gentle embrace.  Richard’s first instinct was to pull away, but the weight of Jim’s arm was so calming that he found himself doing just the opposite, nuzzling in closer, resting his head in the crook of his brother’s neck and wrapping his own arm around Jim.

Maybe it was weird.  Maybe it was wrong.  But it had been so long since Richard had felt this cared for and this protected and this loved that he found himself not caring either way. 

“Your bed is the most comfortable place in the world,” Richard found himself saying, the words far more casual than he felt.  “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

“I’m glad you like it.”  Jim’s words were as tender and affectionate as his hands, gently tracing circles on Richard’s back. 

“Your entire house is amazing,” Richard said in an attempt to stop thinking about just how much he liked the feeling of his brother touching him.  “You’re so lucky.”

“It’s something you don’t appreciate after a while.”

“I don’t think I ever could,” Richard replied quickly.  The thought that he could grow blind to the opulence was unfathomable. 

“You can and you will,” Jim said, and he said it in that tone that Richard now recognized as meaning _this discussion is over and my word is law_ , so Richard kept his protests to himself and breathed in his surroundings.  Everything was so clean he could barely smell it, but he could pick up freshness that signaled laundry detergent and a citrus scent that was probably Jim, or his soap, anyway.

“Richard?” 

Richard almost started; he had thought that maybe Jim had fallen asleep.  “Yes, Jim?”  He pulled himself up to rest his head upon the pillow, his face directly across from Jim’s.  Their noses were almost touching, and Richard could feel his brother’s breath on his lips.       

“Richard?”  Jim’s voice was softer this time, and Richard thought maybe he could feel his arm shaking. 

“Yes, Jim?” 

“Would it be okay if I…”

Yes, Richard realized, Jim’s arm was _definitely_ shaking.  He was clenching his fist in the fabric of Richard’s borrowed shirt in an effort to quell the frantic vibrations of his traitorous limb.  Richard couldn’t imagine why Jim was shaking; he couldn’t be shivering under all these blankets. 

“Jim, it’s okay,” Richard whispered, though he was unsure exactly _what_ was okay.

“Richard, can I…”

Jim never finished the sentence.  It happened so fast that Richard wasn’t sure what was happening; he felt breath on his cheek and a hand on his shoulder and lips sliding warm and soft and slow against his own and—

 _Oh my God, he’s kissing me._  

His brother was kissing him like a lover, and Richard knew he should pull away, knew he should be revolted, but he wasn’t.  Jim wasn’t kissing him like one of his clients, smashing up against his mouth and panting into it in anticipation for what came next.  His motions were sweet and deliberate, a gentle pressure on his bottom lip without a hint of hunger or lust.

In the end, it was Jim who pulled away, his face contorted in concern when he asked, “Was that okay?”  Richard didn’t say anything at first, and Jim looked down, pulling his hand back and whispering, “I’m sorry, Richard, I’m sorry, I won’t—”

“No, it’s…J-Jim, it’s fine.”

“No it’s not,” Jim lamented while turning away from Richard, his voice so thick with shame that just hearing the words made Richard feel physically ill.  “It’s not.”

“Jim, _listen_ to me.  It’s _fine_ ,” Richard said, jaw set.  “I…liked it.”

Richard could almost hear his brother scowling.  “No you didn’t.”

“ _Jim_ ,” Richard said, voice growing exasperated.  “Stop acting like a teenager, please.”

“I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

“What?  No!  James, please, stop.”  For a moment, it occurred to Richard that Jim’s changed demeanor—in control to terrified and ashamed—was almost _too_ extreme.  He quickly pushed the thought away, however, deciding that the shift was not only justified and natural but to be expected.  Jim had always been a moody child, easily set off by triggers others found trivial or flat out didn’t understand, and although Richard had mostly forgotten this over the years, he supposed it wasn’t that strange that this trait had carried over into his brother’s adult life. 

More importantly, Richard remembered what it had been like to say “I think I like boys” to someone for the first time.  He wouldn’t ever forget that faintly disgusted way her lips had turned up at him, making him feel abnormal and dirty and sick, a subhuman freak for wanting something he had no control over.  He imagined Jim might be feeling something similar—perhaps he was worried Richard was revolted by him, now that he had…kissed him.  But Richard _wasn’t_ revolted, he really wasn’t.  It wasn’t like kissing someone was inherently sexual anyway; mothers kissed their sons and fathers kissed their daughters and in some places friends greeted each other with kisses, so it wasn’t strange at all, really, that Jim’s first instinct upon seeing Richard after being separated for far too long would be to kiss him.

“You can kiss me if you want,” Richard said as gently as he could.  Gosh, it was such a strange thing to say to him.  Except it _wasn’t_ , it wasn’t strange at all.  It was a lie to say that Jim kissing him had felt like the most natural thing in the world, but Richard thought maybe it _could_ feel natural, that maybe he _wanted_ it to feel that way. 

_Oh God what am I even thinking right now I want my brother to kiss me what—just—stop thinking stop thinking stop don’t mess up—what if he gets mad stop—calm down—stop—_

“Do you mean that?”  Jim’s voice was a little less miserable this time, and Richard _finally_ got the sense that he wasn’t about to bolt out of the room.

“Of course I do!” Richard chirped with a surety that he hoped would disguise the turmoil bubbling in his stomach.  “James—Jim, I’m not judging you at all.  Really I’m not.”

Jim didn’t say anything; he just kept staring dejectedly at the ceiling with a look on his face that Richard wanted to wipe away.  God, what was making him so upset?  He wasn’t afraid Richard wouldn’t accept him, was he?  He wasn’t ashamed, right?  Richard didn’t mind.  He didn’t.  If only Jim could see that.

“Jim, it’s okay, I promise.  You used to kiss me all the time when we were little, remember?  Kissing is…just another way of saying ‘I love you.’”

“I’m sorry, Richard.”

Richard just couldn’t handle another offensive apology.  “Shut _up_ ,” he groaned as he practically jumped on top of Jim, pushing him into his pillow and biting his bottom lip with an aggression he hadn’t known he possessed. 

For a moment, Jim sat motionless beneath him like a corpse, and Richard was scared that maybe he had made a mistake.  He hadn’t, though—soon Richard could feel the hands grasping at his shirt and taste the soft breaths entering his mouth.  Jim tasted like nostalgia and secrets and the fresh mint of his toothpaste, and Richard wanted _more_.  He opened his mouth slightly, just barely hinting at an invitation and desperately hoping Jim would accept—

Holy _fuck_ , what was he doing?  Letting his brother slide his tongue into his mouth?  God, if he did that, he couldn’t say it wasn’t about sex anymore.   He might be a whore, but that didn’t mean he was so depraved that he’d actually let his brother…let him…

Not like Jim would want that; he wasn’t a freak.  Besides, Richard probably tasted like mac and cheese, and there was no way Jim would want to taste that second-hand.

Doing his best to not reveal why he had pulled away, Richard went back to nuzzling Jim’s throat, not wanting any eye contract to betray what kissing Jim was doing to him.  Jim wasn’t stupid, though; of _course_ he just had to go and say, “Richie, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Richard replied, hating how breathless he sounded.  “I just…you can kiss me if you want.  See?”

Richard practically purred as his brother began to run his hands through his hair, crooning, “Mmmm, with an offer like that, how could I refuse?”  Then, after a while: “Richard, I’m never going to get to sleep with you on my chest.”

“Oh, sorry James—Jim!  Sorry, Jim.”  Richard scrambled off and curled into a tight ball at his brother’s side.  He couldn’t hear Jim’s heartbeat anymore, but when Jim’s hand found his under the coves and held it, Richard decided it was a fair trade-off.

“Hey,  Richard?”  Jim squeezed his hand.

“Yes, Jim?”

“…You can call me James.  If you want.”

Richard’s breath hitched.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I think I’d like that.”

The smile spread over his lips silently; before he knew it, Richard was beaming.  Finally, he had found his brother, and his bed was warm, and his arms were strong, and his kisses were candy, and they could start over from where they left off.  It was so perfect it hurt.  “Okay, James.  I love you so much.”

“Love you more, Richie.”

“Do not,” Richard giggled, happy to return to their childhood game.

“Don’t make me prove it,” Jim sang, smoothing a finger over Richard’s lips to silence him.  Richard’s smile broadened, because whenever they had played the game and Jim told Richard to be quiet, it felt like a victory in the sense that Jim couldn’t have come up with a better way to win it. 

“’Mkay.  Night, James.”

“Good night, Richard.  I promise you’re going to be okay.”

“I know,” Richard said, and he believed it with everything he had.  There was no way James would ever let anything happen to him ever again.

***

Richard was almost more beautiful asleep than he was awake.  He trembled as he slept, a habit, Jim assumed, born of the dreams that surely plagued someone with his history.  Tonight, however, his breathy sighs sounded happy, and so Jim let him sleep.

Everything about his brother was sickly sweet.  He was so naïve, so trusting…had it really surprised him that he had ended up on the streets without someone to take care of him?  The way he had fallen for the act, that Richard actually believed Jim needed him to give _consent_ for him to feel comfortable kissing him…poor thing was so gullible that it almost wouldn’t be any _fun_ , seeing how far Jim could bend him before he broke. 

The ridges of Richard’s scars were barely detectable under the fabric of his borrowed sweat pants.  Jim loved the way they felt under his hands already; he couldn’t wait to get Richard undressed, to strip him bare and lick them, taste them, bite them.  He could do it right now—but no, Richard wouldn’t understand if he woke up, not yet.  Richard might hate his scars now, but Jim was determined to show him that they were the best part of him. 

“I love you so much,” Jim whispered, drunk on the truth of the words.  He loved his brother in a way _stupid_ people with their _boring_ relationships could never comprehend.  Richard was sick, and he was sick, and together they would fix it by infecting each other.  They didn’t need friends or anxiety meds as long as they had each other— _them_ would be enough to fill every hole in Jim’s heart, to fight away every demon that crept up and tried to strangle his brother.  It was symbiotic chaos.  Jim could burn the world to the ground and the flames would never lick their fingers; perhaps he would, just to hear “I love you” muttered over the sound of buildings crumbling and children screaming for a mommy who wasn’t there, to feel Richard writhe and moan as he pushed into him atop a bed of rotting flesh.

Jim could see the reverence in Richard’s eyes when he looked at him.  It was so obvious that the poor thing felt himself so inferior, unable to comprehend how there was a time when they had been identical.  Richard didn’t have to worry for long, though—when Jim was done with him, they would be the same again, so thoroughly twisted together that it would be impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.  Finally, after twenty years, Jim had found someone who understood, someone who could stave off the loneliness, who would stay with him no matter how sick he got.

Well, he hadn’t found someone who _understood_ , really.  But Richard would, soon enough.  Regardless of what would happen to them both, one thing, Jim was sure, would remain constant: Richard would love his brother with everything he had, and Jim would love him back just as fiercely.


	5. Nonnegotiable

Richard soon realized that the salon was the second most impressive place he had ever been in in his entire life, second only to his brother’s…penthouse?  No, _building_.  Jim said he had owned the entire building.  But impressive did not necessarily mean _pleasant_ ; the harsh scent of bleach and dye scraped against the inside of his nose, the lights were far too bright for Richard’s liking, and the pretentious air of the people coming in and out of the salon made him feel sick.  Even in his brother’s clothes, which, admittedly, were about a size to big for him, Richard felt like a liar for even trying to pretend like he belonged here.

 _This isn’t how I wanted today to go_ , he thought miserably before internally berating himself.  Yesterday he had been a whore begging for food and a place to stay the night, and somehow today he had earned the right to complain that his day wasn’t perfect?  Wasn’t going just how he wanted?  Maybe Jim had been right—perhaps he had already grown spoiled, ungrateful for the privileges he had done nothing to deserve. 

It was just—the day had began so perfectly.  He had slowly awoken to the soft clacking of keys on Jim’s laptop, feeling his brother run a hand through his hair every once and a while, and it was so lovely under the almost too warm sheets that he had just stayed there, pretending he was still asleep, for quite a while.  It wasn’t until Jim broke the illusion (“Richie, I _know_ you’re not sleeping”) that Richard finally wormed his way out of the bed sheets and into his twin’s arms; he was greeted by a lazy “good morning” and a handful of soft, sloppy kisses he was only too eager to reciprocate. 

That’s right, Richard reminded himself.  He was living with Jim now, who apparently still really liked kissing him, and Richard was okay with that, because Jim gave him nice kisses and he tasted good, even first thing in the morning.  _Maybe he already brushed his teeth,_ Richard mused.  _…I hope I don’t taste bad._

The question “whatcha doing?” had seemed innocent.  “Pulling together your medical files” was the answer.  “I’m assuming you’re not just carrying them around with you.”

Richard didn’t say much in response, not quite grasping the significance of the statement.  “You haven’t been physically examined in a while, have you?” Jim asked—although the way he said it was really more of a statement of fact. 

“Not since I lived with Da,” Richard replied.  Doctors scared him, shots especially, and hospitals had terrified him ever since he had seen Ma lying limp in a foreign bed with tubes sticking out of her arm.  It wasn’t like he had been able to afford appointments by himself anyway, even when he _was_ working as an actor.  It was a luxury he couldn’t afford and honestly didn’t want.  He would rather get sick.

“Well,” Jim said crisply, snapping his laptop shut, “that’s all changing today.  Get dressed.”

“…Huh?”

“You heard me.  I’ve scheduled an appointment for you at 9, sharp.  We can’t be late if we’re going to make the salon appointment at 11.”

“… _What?_   James, no, I don’t want either of those things.”  The panic was already seizing Richard’s chest.  He had just woken up.  He had just found his brother.  Why was this all being heaped on him so fast?  He couldn’t deal with it.

“Richard,” Jim said, something between exasperation and pity seeping into his voice, “that is not your decision to make.  You need a physical examination.  You _need_ to get tested.  And you need a haircut.  If we get that out of the way today, we can go shopping, okay?  I’ll buy you nice things.”

“James, no, please, I don’t want to.  I don’t want to.  They’re going to tell me everything that’s bad about me and I don’t want to hear it.  I don’t want to know if I’m sick.  I don’t want to lose my hair. Please don’t make me do it.  Please.”

“Richard, honey…”  Jim took his hands, rubbing them gently.  “They’re not going to tell you that you’re bad.  If you have any health concerns we don’t know about, we need them to tell us so we can fix them as soon as possible, okay?”

Richard frowned, trying so hard to remember that Jim was just trying to help him.  “Okay, fine.  But can we please not do hair today?  I want my hair like this.”

“We talked about this last night, Richard.  It’s too long.  The hair appointment is nonnegotiable.” 

“James—”

Jim was already getting out of the bed.  “Nonnegotiable.  I’ll pull together some breakfast; find something to wear and meet me in the kitchen.”

“James…please…”

Richard had to stifle his sobs when he heard “Nonnegotiable!” floating down the hallway.  But if Jim wanted something, Richard would give it to him, so he had rifled through his brother’s closet and pulled out the comfiest-looking items he could find—a difficult task that involved pushing past too many fine, freshly-pressed suits, each which probably cost more than Richard had ever had in his bank account at any point in his life—before sneaking into the bathroom and finding where his brother had put his pills.  (Just because he was going into not one but _two_ anxiety-inducing situations that morning didn’t mean he had to do it without help, after all.)  He soon discovered that his prescription had been refilled; how Jim had managed to procure Xanax in less than twelve hours without even leaving the house (Richard assumed he hadn’t left the house, anyway) baffled Richard, but he dismissed this thought, opting to instead take advantage of his brother’s generosity and tipping the bottle into his hand, shoving the pills that fell out into his mouth and swallowing.  No, it wasn’t the prescribed amount, but Richard had taken too many pills before and it had turned out fine.  He kind of had to take more than he was supposed to feel anything from them anyway.  It was fine.

By the time they arrived at the clinic, Richard realized the meds weren’t enough.  Nothing could fight off the nakedness of the ugly blue gown, its open back an invitation for someone to come up behind him and stick their fingers into him if he wasn’t careful.  And nothing could fix the way the doctor kept on poking and prodding him with all these cold metal instruments, asking him to bend down and touch his toes please, or open his mouth nice and wide.  He trembled on the examination table, at times fighting against the meds to stay awake.  He couldn’t afford to fall asleep, not now, not when she was trying to take his fluctuating pulse, not when she was scraping tissue from his mouth under the pretense of _taking a sample_ , not when she was handing him the small plastic cup and excusing him to go to the bathroom.  Jim had to come hold his hand for that; Richard didn’t think he would have been able to do it by himself.

The worst part was when she pulled up the gown, claiming that she was looking for any physical signs of—of _disease_.  It took everything he had in him not to scream, not to flail and try to kick her away.  _Calm down, calm down_ , he thought frantically, mind racing.  It wasn’t any different than presenting himself to a client.  Frank, forward, emotionless.  Just business. 

Except this _was_ different: Dr. Andrews wasn’t here to take his body for herself.  She was an authority figure, here to examine him, _judge_ him with that objective, hard slash of a line she called a mouth.  He was naked, vulnerable, exposed, any trace of his encounters fully on display.  And then there were the scars, the ugly white scars on his legs.  No.  She couldn’t see, couldn’t see. 

He tried everything—tried to cover himself with his hands, tried to squirm away, to turn his body towards the wall.  It was futile: Jim took his hands in his own, exposing Richard’s body again, and Richard just wasn’t strong enough to throw him off.  After listening to whispered promises that it was fine, that he wasn’t in trouble, Richard allowed his body to go slack.

Slack, until she pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and tried to push into him.  “She needs to check for any damage,” Jim said.  “She needs to take samples here too.  It’ll be over sooner if you don’t squirm so much.” 

And so Richard, scared, compliant Richard did his best to lay limp, stay quiet.  He bit into his hand to cover up the involuntary whimpers building in his throat; when Jim noticed this, he quietly replaced Richard’s hand with his own, and Richard bit down with everything he had, immeasurably grateful.  He could bite harder when the hand wasn’t his.

“Honey, you did great,” Jim told him once Richard was allowed to put his clothes back on.  Richard shivered, leaning into his brother as they made their way out of the clinic.  He didn’t feel like he did great.  He felt like he had done terribly.

“Did she—did I have anything bad?” Richard asked finally.  The doctor had debriefed Jim, not him.  Richard didn’t understand why; if Richard was a child, maybe it would have made sense, but he was an adult, only younger than his brother by a handful of minutes.  Okay, yes, Jim was infinitely more competent than Richard, and yes, Richard probably wouldn’t have been able to handle being told his results directly, but…still. 

“We won’t know for another week,” Jim replied softly.  “They still have to run tests.  The good news is there was nothing external.  And,” he added, “it’s okay if you have something.  We’ll get it taken care of.  And I’ll still love you.”

Richard liked the way Jim squeezed his hand after that, so he smiled back at his brother, hiding the terror that was still thick in his system.  When they slipped into the car, Jim looked at his watch and said, “We have extra time.  Richard, do you want anything?  A treat for being so good?”

“Uh…I’d like ice cream, if that’s okay?”  Richard said, neglecting that it was the middle of January.  Ice cream was Richard’s favorite snack food, and it had been months since he had had any. 

“Ice cream sounds perfect.”  And so Jim had the driver stop at a small ice cream parlor on the way to the salon, where Richard ordered a tiny strawberry cheesecake cone and Jim ordered nothing.  Back in the car, Richard lapped happily at his treat until he noticed Jim staring at him with a look he only could describe as predatory.  No, not predatory—that was silly.  Jim probably just wanted to sample his ice cream. 

“James, do you want some?”  Richard asked, offering his cone to his brother. 

“Oh, Richard, it’s fine.  I don’t really like fruit flavors in desserts.”

“Are you sure?  It’s really good,” Richard insisted, shoving the cone closer to his brother.  He wanted to share it with his brother, now that he finally had his brother, and something worth sharing.  Even if his brother had bought it for him.  Whatever; he still wanted to—to feel like he could give things to Jim, even if that was just a taste of an ice cream flavor Jim didn’t favor. 

Jim seemed to sense that it would just be easier to humor his brother, so he took the cone in his hands and took a few quick licks before handing it back.  “Not bad.  But then,” he smiled, “it’s no surprise that my brother has impeccable taste.”

Richard blushed, always sensitive to his brother’s little compliments, and finished eating his ice cream before dozing off against the window of the car.  The pills were starting to kick in—that God for that; Richard couldn’t imagine going to a hair appointment without them at full effect—and he was so weary after the strain of the doctor’s appointment.  He didn’t get to sleep for long though; though they had been caught in a minor traffic jam for a while, it was probably less than ten minutes before Jim was shaking Richard awake, gently informing him that they had arrived at the salon and Richard needed to get up.  Richard noticed that as he had been sleeping, he had sort of drooled against the window.  Eww.

Luckily for Richard, there was a bit of a holdup at the salon.  “We’re very sorry, Mr. Lewis, but Anna is still working on another client,” the lady at the desk said, twisting her curly hair nervously.  Maybe she had just started working here and was still adjusting to the attitude of the clients, Richard thought.  “We apologize for the wait.  In the meantime, please sit down.”

Richard did not like the bright red chairs in the lobby.  Even though they were leather, they were uncomfortable, with no cushion or give to them, unlike every other leather chair Richard had ever had the privilege of sitting in.  And they were ugly.  And he couldn’t curl up in them and fall asleep because they were skinny and had no armrests.  Jim’s penthouse had much nicer furniture.  Speaking of Jim—

“James, why did she call you…that?” Richard asked, pulling at the sleeve of his—Jim’s—shirt.  He couldn’t help it; now that he was in the salon, he was growing nervous, even with the help of the pills.  Better he pull at his sleeve than…well.

“Hmm?” Jim replied, darkening the screen of his cell phone and shoving it back into his pocket.  Richard felt guilty for disturbing him—maybe he was doing something important?—but, well, it just bothered him that…they weren’t going by the same name anymore. 

“She called you Mr. Lewis,” Richard said, clarifying.  “Why?”

“Oh!”  Jim chuckled when he understood the question.  “I dropped Da’s surname a long time ago, Richard.  I’m sure you understand.”

Richard supposed that made sense.  If Da had abandoned him too, he supposed he would drop the name too.  All things considered, maybe he should anyway. 

A woman in her late forties approached them, announcing her presence with a slight cough and a “Once again, we apologize for the wait.  In the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?  Tea?  Coffee?  Water?”

“Tea for me, please,” Jim answered.  “Earl Grey, one sugar.  Thanks.”

When the woman turned to Richard, he found himself stumbling over his words, having a hard time remembering what the woman’s question was.  “Um.  Uh.  Water, can I have some water, please?”

The woman nodded in affirmation, asking, “Would you like lemon in it, sir?”

 _Lemon?_   What kind of clients did this salon have, for the…waitress?  Servers?  to instinctually ask if the clients wanted lemon in their water?  And…sir?  Richard knew he didn’t look like a sir.  “Lemon would be wonderful, thanks,” he said finally, after his amazement had faded.  The woman nodded and excused herself to prepare the requested drinks.

Once she was gone, Richard returned to interrogating his brother. “So…why Lewis?”  Maybe Lewis was the surname of the family that had adopted Jim, Richard thought.  Maybe he was asking stupid questions.

“Just a fake name.  Got lots of them, Richie.  Don’t want to be recognized from work.”

“That doesn’t sound very…legal, for a lawyer,” Richard replied, eyebrows scrunching of their own accord. 

“Why?” Jim asked, raising one of those perfectly manicured eyebrows halfway up his forehead.  “It’s no different than an author going by a pseudonym, is it?”

“I guess not,” Richard decided.  God, he was so stupid.  “Then…what’s your work name?”  It was so strange—twenty years later, he finds his twin, and he doesn’t even know what he should be calling him.

“Took Ma’s name,” Jim said simply as he busted out a quick text on his phone.  “Always liked it better anyway.”

 “So you’re Jim, now.  Jim Mori—”

“Richard, _shut up_ ,” Jim said, and Richard jumped.  It was the first time Jim had spoken harshly to him in the twelve or so hours they had been reunited.  Jim must have noticed the effect the words had on his brother, because his face softened in something akin to regret.  “Sorry, sweetie.  You can’t say my name like that, okay?  You just can’t.”

“I’m really sorry, James,” Richard said, backing as far as he could into his chair.  He didn’t understand what was so bad about a name.  “I’m really, really sorry.”

“Honey, it’s okay.”  Jim reached across the gap between the chairs to hold one of Richard’s trembling hands, because Jim’s opinion of the people at the salon really wasn’t that much higher than Richard’s, and if they wanted to throw judgmental glances his way, that was their stupid, boring problem, not his.  “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Richard replied, still trembling, but feeling much better now that Jim was holding his hand.  “It’s a nice name anyway, if…if my opinion counts for anything.  Sounds very…smart.”

“Of course your opinion counts,” Jim replied, smiling softly.  “I’m glad you like it.”

“And it sounds very…Irish,” Richard added, eliciting giggles from them both.  “Doesn’t sound much like my brother, though.”

“Oh, Richie,” Jim laughed breathlessly, “I’ll always be James Brook for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking forever to update! Over the past month I was struck by a major case of writing ADD and started writing things that happen much, much later in the story. I promise I do not intend for this to be a 5 chapter fic, and I have lots of exciting things in store for these two once Richie gets fully settled into his new life with his brother. And when I say exciting, I mean morally questionable at best and traumatizing at worst. ;)
> 
> I hope to see you all again for Chapter 6 sometime before December is over. Kudos and comments make my day! Thank you for reading and supporting this far.


	6. Pulling My Hair Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning Time: In this chapter, Richard experiences some side effects from taking too many meds and struggles with his sexual orientation. Also, *spoiler* it's revealed that he did not want to go to the salon because he has a condition known as trichotillomania, which is when a person pulls out their own hair compulsively or as anxiety relief (thus, the chapter title), and if his hair is short, the resulting bald patches show, further perpetuating his anxiety. I didn't tag any of these things because I think of them more as a part of my Richard headcanon and less of a main focus of this particular story. However, these elements are likely to come up again, and I understand why they might be upsetting, so I just wanted to let you guys know they're in there.
> 
> This chapter is one of my favorites so far, and I am particularly fond of the ending. I hope you like it as much as I do. Chapter 7 should be up before the end of the month. Enjoy!

Anna the hairstylist was, as it turned out, a slightly stunning twenty-something-year-old who looked right at home in the beauty industry.  The way she said “Nice to see you again, Mr. Lewis,” suggested that Jim was one of her regulars, and Richard couldn’t help but wonder if her talent—she must have some, if she was working in such a high-brow salon—was really the only reason Jim let her touch his hair.  “And who is this?” she asked, her voice friendly, bubbly, perfect for a service-based industry.  Richard found himself intimidated by her easygoing tone, looking at the ground instead of introducing himself.

“This is my little brother Richie,” Jim said, patting Richard on his shoulder.  Oh, God, now he just felt even more like a child.  They were twins, damn it, he wasn’t _the little one_. 

Except, well, he was.

“He’s really cute,” she said to Jim, and gosh, what did she think he was, fifteen?  Twelve?  (She wouldn’t be the first one.)  “Nice to meet you,” she said, addressing Richard directly for the first time.  Richard mumbled a tiny _hi_ in response. 

“What are we doing to him?” she asked, looking at Jim again. 

“Give him the same as me, if you don’t mind,” Jim replied suavely before pulling his phone out again and sending off another text message.  Richard gulped; Jim’s hair was so much shorter than his.  He didn’t know if he could handle that.

“Alright, Richie, follow me and I’ll make you just as pretty as your brother, okay?” Anna said, running a hand through Richard’s shaggy hair like he was a pet.  Well, maybe he was a pet.  He was starting to feel like one. 

So Richard followed Anna wordlessly to the sinks and sat down in the chair, leaning his head into the bowl as she ran shampoo through his hair.  Richard liked the feeling of it—it was nice to have someone massage his scalp—but her nails were a bit long and they felt a little scratchy.  Richard liked the way Jim shampooed his hair better.  He liked the way he had had to sit in his brother’s lap last night in the tub, with Jim’s body pressing against his, and—

“What year are you in, Richie?” Anna asked, effectively ending Richard’s happy train of thought.  Richard blinked, not quite understanding.  It was hard to concentrate on anything real over the sound of the faucet rushing and the hair dryers blaring and the lukewarm water running down his head and the—it was just too much, too much.  And— _year?_   What?

“I’m sorry, I don’t…I don’t know what you mean?”  Richard finally said, not wishing to be rude. 

“Oh, you know, what year in school?”  Anna said, moving the detachable head of the faucet to rinse off the soap suds remaining behind Richard’s ears.

“Oh, I’m, uh, well actually I’m James’ twin,” Richard said quickly.  “We’re the same age.”

“Oh my gosh!”  Anna exclaimed, almost dropping the faucet head in the sink.  “I’m so sorry, I thought you were still in secondary school, or college, maybe…I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” Richard said.  “People make that mistake all the time.”

“How—how are you his twin?” she stuttered.  “I’m sorry!  How rude of me.”

“It’s really fine.  We don’t look that similar next to each other, do we?” 

“Yes!” she exclaimed, relieved that Richard was much more…reasonable than the other clients she had to put up with; he understood where she was coming from and bothered to treat her like a person even after her blunder.  “And then he introduced you as the little brother, and—and, well I mean with your longer hair and your big eyes I just…assumed.”

“Anyone would.  It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m glad it doesn’t upset you,” she said, running a fluffy white towel through his hair to dry it.  “Still, I’m sorry I treated you like a little kid.  Here,” she said, holding her hand out.  “I’m Anna.  Nice to meet you, Richard.”

“Nice to meet you too, Anna.”  Richard lifted himself out of his chair (doing his best to hide how disoriented it made him) and shook her hand.  He felt much less stifled now that he was being treated his age.  “Can…can I sit down?”

“Oh, of course,” Anna said quickly, leading him back to her section of the salon and seating him in her chair.  Jim was there already, sitting in the adjacent chair and tapping away on his phone. 

“See you’ve made a new friend, Richie,” Jim mused, and there was something in his voice that made Richard shiver.  Something that suggested that maybe Richard wasn’t supposed to make friends.  Richard nodded anyway, choosing to not let it bother him, because of course Jim would want Richard to have friends; Jim wanted what was best for him, after all.

The mirror in front of Richard was huge, intimidating, reminding him that _that_ was what he looked like—too skinny, too shabby, unable to fill out his clothes, eyes wide and buglike.  Ugly.  How could Jim manage to look so different than him?  Their genes were the same.  He tried to look at the ceiling, at Jim, at the wall—anything but his reflection—but it was futile: Anna kept moving his head back to the center, telling him “you need to look forward!” Richard eventually decided he would just close his eyes, because he really couldn’t handle looking at himself, and the stylist chair actually _was_ comfortable, and the way Anna was pulling chunks of Richard’s hair and snipping them down to a shorter length was kind of…relaxing…

“So Richard, what do you do for a living?  If you don’t mind me asking,” Anna asked cheerily, wanting to get to know Richard properly this time.  Richard blinked awake quickly—not that he had been asleep, of course not—and scrambled to find an answer to the question.

 _I suck cock for a living_ was not an acceptable response, Richard decided, so he went with something that technically wasn’t a lie.  “I’m an actor.”  Unemployed for months, but never mind that.

“Really?”  Anna said, and she actually sounded interested, which made a sliver of pride glow in Richard’s chest.  “What kind of an actor?”

“I do theatre work, mostly,” Richard answered.  “’S better than film, even if the pay’s worse.  Each performance is different, and the audience plays an active role in theatre, and sometimes you have to improvise if someone else is off that night, and that’s just not something you get with TV or movies or commercials or what have you.  It’s far less structured than film and gives you more freedom with your role—sorry, sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, don’t be sorry!  That’s far more interesting than most of the people who sit in my chair,” Anna confessed.  “So…have you been in anything I might have seen?”

“Probably not, unless you’re really fond of small theatre companies,” Richard laughed.  “We put on very small productions, 100 seats maximum.”

“Which role have you most enjoyed playing?”

“Um, I was Hamlet once,” Richard said, trying not to sound like he was bragging.  It wasn’t that big of an accomplishment, being in such a small company and all. 

“Hamlet!” Anna exclaimed, moving from the back of Richard’s head the right side, right above his ear.  “Even _I_ know that’s a big deal.”

“Thank you,” Richard said quietly, soaking up the praise.  Gosh, Anna was so nice.  Getting his hair cut wasn’t so bad, with her asking little questions like this.

“So…any important ladies in your life?”  Anna asked, voice a little mischievous.  Richard jumped at the question, not knowing how to respond to that.  Oh God.  Oh, God.  What—how should he—he couldn’t be honest.  He didn’t want her to think he was a freak.

“Not really,” Richard said, hating how his voice had raised about three octaves.  “I haven’t had a girlfriend since secondary school, actually,” he admitted, the confession turning into a mumble towards the end.  Maybe if he said the words quietly, she wouldn’t noticed how they screamed _I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m a whore and I’m gay._

“Really?  You’re so easy to talk to, I’d imagine you’d have girls falling for you left and right,” Anna said, and Richard really, really hoped she wasn’t flirting with him.  She was a lovely girl, and he didn’t want to disappoint her, not like... 

Not that he really believed she could be interested in him, with his brother sitting in the chair next to him. 

“But I guess life as an actor might not leave a lot of time for relationships.”

Richard was immeasurably grateful that she had given him this out.  “It really is,” Richard said quickly.  “The hours are ridiculous and make it hard to socialize outside work.  And I’m the kind of person who likes to know people before getting into a relationship with them.  Since everyone I know is in the troupe, and dating other members is a really bad idea, I just…don’t.  You know?”

“Totally understandable,” Anna agreed cheerily.  “I’m sorry if that question was too forward; it’s just, your brother and I always gossip about each other’s love lives when he comes in.  Speaking of—Jim, found anyone who’s making you think about settling down?  Or are you still the same smooth bachelor as always?”

“Funny you mention it,” Jim said, looking up from his phone for the first time since the haircut had commenced.  “I actually have my eye on someone right this minute.”

“Really now?”  Anna said, clearly amused.  Richard hadn’t even thought about Jim and his sex life, but of course he had one, of _course_ he did.  Something about that made Richard uncomfortable—not that he had any right to feel that way, but…the thought of Jim kissing someone other than him, of Jim _wanting_ to kiss someone other than him, some girl Richard didn’t know…was very upsetting.  Which was stupid; the way he and Jim were kissing was _very different_ than the way Jim would kiss someone else, because he and Jim did _not_ kiss as some sort of prelude to sex. That would be disgusting. 

But, oh, did this mean Jim would bring this girl he wanted back to the penthouse, would he fuck her in their bed, the bed that Richard was sleeping in now?  Would Richard have to sleep on the couch on those nights?  On the couch, alone, listening to the noises emanating from the bedroom?  It—it wasn’t fair that Jim wanted someone, not when Richard didn’t want anyone.  Nope.  Nobody at all.  He and Jim should just—just be _celibate_ together; that would make everything so much easier.

“ _Really_ ,” Jim replied, and Anna countered with a, “Well, tell me everything!” that he seemed more than happy to oblige.  “Oh, Anna, he’s gorgeous.  He’s got these big, beautiful, sad eyes, and when you look into them, you just want to do everything you can to give him the world and put a smile on his face.”

Wait.

 _He?_  

Jim was _gay_?  And he could just admit it, just say it out loud like it didn’t even matter?  It made no sense at all—Jim was perfect, Jim was a god, Jim couldn’t be _queer_.  No.  He couldn’t be.  This was a joke.  It had to be.

Richard’s mind was flooded with painful questions he knew he couldn’t ask at this prissy salon.  Was—did Jim sleep with men exclusively?  How many men had he taken to bed?  Did he spread his legs for his partners, or did they spread their legs for him?  Or both?  Had—had he ever been hurt because of it, the way Richard had?  Had his adopted parents known about it?  Had they cared?  Had they hit him for it?  And why hadn’t he told Richard?  That was a pretty important thing, not something you just gloss over—

_Oh._

They had found each other again because Richard was a whore, a _male whore_ , and Jim _wanted to take him home_.  Duh.  Oh, God, how could Richard have been this stupid?  _Of course Jim was gay._   Or, at least he slept with men. 

How weird.

Maybe this wasn’t a bad thing, Richard decided.   Jim was good, and Jim liked men, apparently, so…maybe being gay wasn’t the terrible character defect Richard had assumed it was.  It—it wasn’t that Richard hated gay men or anything; he had gotten over any prejudice his father had tried to instill in him ages ago.  It was just—Richard had never become comfortable with that part of his identity.  And if Jim was comfortable with it, then maybe he could…help Richard figure it out.

Except now, Jim was bringing another _man_ Richard didn’t know into the penthouse, and would be fucking another _man_ in the bed were Richard was now supposed to sleep.  And that…Richard didn’t…

Well, it wasn’t his place.  It literally wasn’t his place: the penthouse belonged to Jim.

“He sounds wonderful, Jim,” Anna replied.  Richard thought it was so odd that she accepted Jim’s sexuality without batting an eye.  Then again, if they had these kinds of conversations regularly, he supposed Anna would have had time to get used to Jim liking men.  “How’d you two meet?”

“He’s someone from my childhood,” Jim said, voice wrapped up in soft admiration.  If Richard didn’t know better, he would think the object of Jim’s affections was in the salon right at that moment.  “I only just ran into him again this week.  It was a chance meeting.”

That…that was actually kind of sweet, Richard thought.  His brother was lucky.  Richard couldn’t think of who this childhood friend could possibly be; Jim had never had friends when they were still living together.  The other children had thought him annoying, bossy, whatever.  Richard hadn’t ever thought that about him—Jim was always so nice to Richard, would do anything for him as long as Richard followed Jim’s instructions and behaved himself, and always protected Richard from other kids because, well…because Richard was scared of them.  _It must be someone from when he was in foster care,_ Richard thought.  That made sense; foster homes would have multiple kids in them, sometimes.  He could easily have met a friend there, only to be pulled in a different direction once circumstances changed.

“Oh, how cute!  Childhood friends,” Anna exclaimed.  “Is he different now?”

“A little,” Jim said, laughing.  His tone changed completely when he elaborated:  “I have reason to suspect he went through a rough patch after he and I parted ways, but I haven’t asked too much about it.  Whatever it was definitely affected him, and he doesn’t seem ready to discuss it.”

“That’s really too bad.  I hope he’s okay.”

“Oh, he’s fine now,” Jim replied quickly.  “He’ll be fine.”

“Good!  Good,” Anna said politely before diving in for the really juicy details.  “So what’s the status of your relationship?”

“We’ve kissed,” Jim said, and the way he said it was like he was announcing his life’s greatest accomplishment.  And there it was: Jim was kissing someone other than Richard.  Something about that, something Richard couldn’t explain, made his gut twist with jealousy.  “I think it’ll be a while before I get him into bed, but he’s the kind of man that’s worth waiting for.”

“Oh my gosh, Jim,” Anna said, unable to disguise her amusement.  “You sound like some big romantic.  Must really like him, yeah?”

“I do,” Jim said softly before snapping out of his reverie and returning Anna’s peppering of questions back at her.  “So how’s your beau?”

Anna threw her head backwards and groaned.  “I think Josh is cheating on me.”

“No!” Jim said, his face contorting into one of mock surprise.

“I know!”  Anna exclaimed.  “It’s a bit not good because now I’m moved in, you know?  There’s a new tenant in my old apartment!  It’ll be a real hassle to find a new place.”

“I can’t believe he’d do that to you,” Jim said, the distaste in his voice obvious. 

“Me either,” Anna groaned, and as the two continue gossiping, Richard found it harder and harder to stay awake, now that he and his brother’s sexuality were out of the line of questioning.  His breathing slowed, and he slipped from consciousness, just slipped, until—

“Richard?” Anna asked, and there was something in her voice that sounded like—like horror.  Or fear.  Blinking awake was an effort, but Richard forced himself back to the world of the living, only to find his brother and his stylist staring at him in—shock?  Concern?  Richard couldn’t read their faces, couldn’t bring himself to care enough, really.  He just wanted to sleep.

 _Must be the…the drugs kicking in_ , Richard thought blearily.  Whenever his medication hit him, it hit him hard and fast.  Usually it didn’t take three hours to start having an effect, but then Richard supposed he had built up quite a tolerance by now.  “Sorry, ‘m awake,” he said, leaning over to the counter before the mirror and propping his head on a wobbly arm.  Really, it was far too much to ask his neck to support his head by itself.  His head felt like a boulder.  A boulder of fog.  Nice, fuzzy fog that kept bad things away.  Yes.

“Richard, what is that?” Jim asked, his hard eyes pointing to Richard’s head.  Richard vaguely remembered there was something funny about his head, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, so he looked in the mirror, hoping that would trigger his struggling memory. 

Looking at the mirror wasn’t the best idea; it looked like it was moving backwards, away from him, but when he put his other hand out to touch it, he could feel it was staying still.  He raised his hand up, towards his reflected face, and tried to focus—if not on his face, then his hand.  There, under his hand, he saw.  He remembered.

Jim had been staring at the two bright white patches—one sitting right above his left ear, the other cutting a large half-circle above his left eye.  A soft, pathetic down had grown back to cover the skin, speckling the patches with a thin cover that did little to protect Richard from the horrified looks others gave him; he had relied on his long, shaggy hair to disguise the baldness. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, voice thick with medication. 

“Richard.  That does not answer my question.”

Richard closed his eyes at his brother’s harsh words.  He didn’t understand why Jim was making such a big deal out of his hair—he was the one who wanted Richard to get it cut, after all.  Well, normally Richard would have understood, but right now he just—couldn’t remember why he was supposed to be ashamed. 

“Sometimes, I pull my hair out,” Richard said blearily.  There—could he sleep again? 

“What?” Jim said, his voice hollow and filled with a confusion he was not accustomed to feeling.  “You…pull your own hair out?”

“’S not any worse than my legs, Jim,” Richard pointed out, pouting through the drug-induced haze.  He raised his other hand to his head, because it needed the extra support, and because hopefully, if Jim couldn’t see the patches anymore, he would just forget them.

“Honey…” Jim said softly, the harshness finally fading from his voice.  “Why did you pull your hair out?”

“ _’S not_ _worse than my legs_ ,” Richard repeated, beginning to grow irritated.  Why wouldn’t he just let him sleep?  His hair wasn’t a big deal.

“Okay, okay, it’s not worse than your legs.  You’re right.  It’s fine,” Jim said quickly, quietly, trying to keep the other inhabitants of the salon from sensing that anything interesting was happening in this corner of the building. 

“What do we do?”  Anna asked, eyes wide with confusion and concern.  She had never had to deal with anything like this before.  _Who pulled out their own hair?_   “We could buzz him,” she suggested.

“No!  No—he’ll be in even more of a shock when he’s lucid if all his hair is gone.  Just finish the cut and we’ll go.”

Anna nodded quietly before trimming the rest of Richard’s hair to the new length while Jim prodded Richard almost constantly, trying to keep him awake, before finally supporting Richard’s floppy neck with his own hands.  It looked like he was throttling his brother—and considering the situation, Jim kind of wanted to.  How many pills had Richard taken?  Never mind that; he would count the remaining ones in the bottle when they got home.  And he and Richard would need to have a serious talk about medication.  And…hair.

When Anna finished her work, Jim paid quickly before shaking Richard awake, saying, “Richie, it’s time to go” as quietly as possible. 

Richard stirred, mumbling “But James, ‘m comfy” without opening his eyes.  After enough shakes, however, he was pushing Jim away, crying, “Okay!  Okay!  I’m coming!” without any of his characteristic shyness when in public. 

“Bye, Richard.  It was nice to meet you,” Anna said, waving a small hand and giving a tight smile.  Richard grunted in reply; if he remembered this the next day, he would be appalled at this goodbye, but at the moment, he didn’t really care.  He and Jim made their way out of the salon in an appalling fashion, with Jim half-carrying his floppy brother before unceremoniously tossing him into the Jaguar.  Immediately Richard slumped against his window, but Jim wasn’t done with him yet; he shook Richard awake more forcefully this time, his voice less restrained when he barked “wake up!”

“Wha now?” Richard grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest and scowling.  “First the hair, now this…why are you so mean, James?”

Jim blinked slowly, reminding himself that this was the medication talking, not Richard.  “I was planning on taking you shopping today, but I can see that’s not going to happen,” he said slowly, trying to keep his voice level.  “I’ll send someone out, but I need to know what you want.  Armani?  Westwood?  I guess we could go for Calvin Kline.”  Jim had a legion of personal shoppers at his command, but he couldn’t just send them out without any direction.

“Huh?  What are you talking ‘bout?” Richard said, pouting. 

“ _Clothes_ , Richard.  I’m trying to get you something to wear.  You can’t keep borrowing from me; you’re just too skinny.  You’d look better in a pillowcase than in what you’ve got on, honestly.”

“Oh,” Richard said, his face scrunching again.  They had to talk about this now because…?  “James, I don’t want suits.  Want…cardigans.  And scarves.”

“You can’t just wear cardigans all the time, Richard,” Jim said, feeling like he was talking to a small child.  At this point, he sort of was.

“Don’t!  Want!  _Suits!_ ” Richard screeched, before realizing that maybe that outburst had been a bit out of line and looking at his brother sheepishly.  “I want cardigans.  Please.  I don’t…like suits.  Don’t like to wear them.”

Jim softened at the change in demeanor, deciding that he would fight one battle at a time.  “Alright, Richard.  I will buy you all the cardigans in the world.  Does that sound nice?”

“All the cardigans?”  Richard asked, leaning his head against the back of the leather seat of the car.  It was a soft leather, pale, much finer than cow hide, but Richard wasn’t able to register that at the moment.

“All the cardigans,” Jim said, looking at his brother and running a hand through his trimmed hair and the shocking patches of skin it exposed.  Yes, the patches were jarring, but Richard was right; they were just like the scars that Jim loved.  Even better, Jim was sure he could help Richard, could help him stop doing this to himself.  That thought created a pleasant tingling in his stomach.

“Thanks, James.  Sounds nice,” Richard said, still struggling to stay awake.  Jim decided to take pity on his brother, softly murmuring that Richard was free to sleep now, and Richard’s eyes closed immediately, not needing to be told twice.  Jim continued to stroke the side of Richard’s face, running his fingers through the soft down just above his ear and then along his brother’s pale pink lips, considering slipping his fingers inside to feel the warmth before pressing a soft kiss to Richard’s forehead and letting him dream.    

***

Richard still felt drowsy when they returned to the penthouse, so Jim led him back to the bedroom and encouraged him to remove those ill-fitting trousers before reheating the leftover macaroni and cheese and bringing it to his brother.  “I can eat in here?” Richard asked, skepticism cutting through the fog of the medication.  “Of course you can,” Jim breathed, scooping the food onto the spoon and offering it to Richard, who opened his mouth and gulped gratefully. 

It was difficult to overdose on alprazolam, Jim knew, and Richard seemed to have built up quite a tolerance to his medication, so as long as Jim kept an eye on Richard as he metabolized the drug, he would probably be fine.  With this plan, he let Richard stay by his side and rest while he worked on his laptop.  Richard woke up every now and again, sometimes asking sleepy questions about Jim’s work that Jim easily dodged, sometimes demanding to be petted, sometimes simply curling up next to Jim and wrapping his arms around him before falling asleep again.  Jim couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this genuinely affectionate towards him. 

Jim’s phone vibrated late in the afternoon—an event that would have been unexceptional had the caller ID of ‘Moron’ not flashed on the device’s screen.  He answered with a smirk and a “Well hello there, Sebby,” that dripped with the dangerous playfulness with which he usually conducted business. 

The voice on the other end of the line was deep and rough and husky, its words crunching together like boots on gravel.  “Johnson has been apprehended,” it announced, although it might as well have been reading directly from a dry history textbook with all the emotion it carried.

“Aww, you’re not going to say hi to me?  Ask me how my day was?”  Jim crooned.  Had he been talking on a phone with a cord, he surely would have been twisting it around his finger; as it was, he was rubbing circles into his sleeping brother’s shoulder.

There was a sigh, followed by a robotic “Hello, Jim.  How was your day?”

“Absolutely wonderful, thanks for asking.  Afraid I can’t divulge much of the details, though; sorry.”  Jim chuckled; he knew that Sebastian knew he wasn’t sorry.  “Sounds like your day wasn’t as great as mine,” he continued, words now laced with pity that almost sounded real.  “Going to tell me about it?  What’s ruffling my tiger’s fur today?”

“Nothing much.  It’s just that last night, I got a text from my boss, you see?  He tells me to kidnap this guy, says we’ll be torturing him tomorrow, get the blowtorch ready.  And this afternoon, I get _another text_ , this one telling me that the torture’s been postponed until further notice.  And I’m just sitting here thinking, what’s this psycho want me to do?  Kill the guy?  Let him go?  Have him come live in my apartment for a few days and drink all my beer?”

“Oh Sebby, how awful!  This boss of yours sounds like a real prick.” 

“Cut the crap, Jim.  What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to watch your tone, Moran.” 

There was a small pause as Sebastian remembered exactly who he was talking to.  “Sorry, boss.”

“Much better.  Now, I don’t much care what you do with him as long as you don’t kill him and you don’t let him leave.  Chain him to a wall and bring him food every few days.  Just don’t bother me about it; I’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

“Like?” Sebastian huffed; Jim’s warning about respect was already forgotten.

“I’ve got a new project I’ll be working on for the next few weeks.  It’s pretty time consuming,” Jim said smoothly, running his hand through Richard’s hair.  Richard let out a tiny sigh, and Jim smiled to himself.  _Oh, isn’t he just precious._     

“You gonna tell me about it?”

“I’ll let you know if it ever begins to concern you, yes.”

“…Okay then,” Sebastian stuttered, a little lost for words.  For the past two years, he had been right beside Jim as he worked on most of his “projects,” especially the interesting ones.  The thought of him not knowing what Jim was doing made him feel like—like he was being replaced.  But that was impossible; Jim had told him that himself, once.  No use worrying about it, though; if Jim didn’t want Sebastian to know something, Sebastian wouldn’t know.  Simple as that. 

“So are we on for Sunday?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim said brusquely.  “If we are, we are, and if we aren’t, we aren’t.  Be there regardless; I will not have you standing me up.”

“Alright, I guess we’re not doing anything.  Duly noted.”  The last time Jim had given an ambivalent answer, he hadn’t showed.  And the time before that.  And the time before _that_.  One of the times Sebastian was pretty sure Jim had gone to a nightclub instead, judging by the fresh bite marks his shirt collar couldn’t quite conceal the following day. 

“Sebastian.” 

Jim’s voice was ice, but Sebastian refused to show he was scared.  “Yes, Jim?”

“I’ve been wanting a new chair recently.  I was thinking the scars on your back would make a very interesting texture, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“When I find a new sniper as talented as you—and this will be no great hardship, despite what you may think about your abilities—I will let him bend me over and fuck me against this chair.  Do you hear what I am saying?”

“Yes, boss.  Loud and clear.”  So much for being irreplaceable. 

“Good.  Now, is there anything else you need explained?”  Jim knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it, especially when—

“James?”

Richard’s voice was groggy, still thick with the haze of sleep, but he was making a real effort to look up at his brother from his cave inside the covers.  “James, who’re you talking to?”

“Oh, honey, it’s nobody important.  Go back to sleep.”

“Oh…okay.”

“Am I being too loud?  Do you need me to into a different room?”  Jim found himself rubbing Richard’s shoulder again and pointedly ignoring Sebastian’s purposefully loud breathing.

“No, don’t leave!”

Richard was clutching Jim’s shirt tightly within a little fist.  Jim smiled again, placing a kiss on Richard’s forehead.  _He’s so dependent_ , Jim thought.  … _He’s perfect._

“Shhh, sweetie, I’m right here.  I’ve got you.”  Jim’s voice was sickeningly gentle, and he hoped—knew—Sebastian was listening.  Richard nodded and started to doze off again, his hand still desperately clutching his brother’s shirt even as he returned to sleep. After a few moments of punishing silence, he returned his attentions to his unruly employee.  “Where were we?”

“That’s all I needed to discuss,” Sebastian answered, deflated.  “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all.  You can call me _aaaany tiiiime_ , don’t you know?”

“Alright, boss.  Good luck with your project.”

“See you later, Sebby,” Jim sang, clicking the ‘end call’ button and dropping the phone next to him.  Richard murmured something softly in his sleep, and the clacking of the keyboard resumed, everything slowly fading back to the way it was meant to be.


	7. Going to Fix You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update...technically, this is "before the end of December," but still. Doesn't really count when it's New Year's Eve. Chapter 8 should be out in two weeks; it'll be on the small side so I should be able to manage that. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who's stayed with me and supported me thus far with this (especially those who have left kudos and comments!). Writing such an obscure pairing felt pretty risky at first, but knowing that you guys like this enough to come back and read the next chapter has made this a really fun project to take on, so thanks and hugs to all of you. I'm wishing all of you a warm and safe New Year, and as a gift to you for being such lovely readers, we get to spend a little time with Sebastian this chapter. Enjoy!

_5:39._

The number blinked steadily from his nightstand, illuminating the room with a faint red glow, and Sebastian stared at it in anger.  All he wanted to do was sleep, and he couldn’t even manage that.  For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t even _light_ outside yet.  He had figured that, seven years after his discharge, he would be able to at _least_ sleep in until six on his days off; apparently, his biological clock had other plans, thinking he was still in the army. 

Well, to be fair, he had never left the war.

He sighed, pulling himself out of bed and trudging towards the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker while thinking, not for the first time this month, that maybe it was finally time to hire an interior designer.  When Jim had initially purchased the brand-new flat, Sebastian hadn’t bothered to decorate it for two reasons: first, he was helpless when it came to anything that involved furniture (with the exception of integrating couches and tables and chairs into sex play, which was a particular talent of his), and second, whenever he considered the trajectory of his relationship with his boss, he had assumed he would be moving in with Jim (as a caretaker if nothing else) within six months. 

That had been three years ago.  Now, as Sebastian admired the Spartan décor of his living space, he concluded that he had seen _hospital rooms_ with more welcoming personalities.  Sebastian knew he didn’t _need_ prettier accommodations—this was an upgrade from the dilapidated apartment he had inhabited before, and for that he was grateful—but it would be nice to have painted walls to look at, or something, if this was meant to be his permanent residency.

After gulping down his coffee and quickly brushing his teeth, Sebastian made his way to his living room—which really wasn’t much of a living room so much as an improvised gymnasium with a couch in the corner—and began his daily workout routine, a medley of pushups and weightlifting and lunges.  Next came the morning run.  Sebastian decided that a little less than 6 kilometers would be a perfectly appropriate length for that day; after all, it was his day off.  He deserved a break.

Sebastian had never quite figured out what male runners were supposed to wear during the colder parts of the year.  Shorts weren’t an option; London mornings were, more often than not, terribly frigid and usually wet in January, and the chill slowed him down if he let it bite at his bare skin.  Heck, sometimes he wore thin gloves to ward it off.  After years of Afghanistan and India, he had never quite adjusted to the colder weather of England.  But he couldn’t wear _running tights_ —those stupid excuses for pants that clung to his legs like a girl’s stockings.  Nope, not for him.  He wasn’t even a real runner, anyway.  No marathons for him in the near future.  He didn’t care if Jim had bought him the tights (as a joke, probably); he couldn’t wear them outside of the house—or in the house, honestly—without feeling like a poser.  In the end, he settled for a pair of sweats and was soon on his way out the door.

Sebastian secretly loved his morning runs.  It felt so civilian, so normal, to flit through the small crowds already forming on the streets of London, to watch the city yawn and come alive.  There was the little flower shop on the corner with its “open” sign just flickering on, and there was the bookstore where Sebastian had purchased a book on astronomy to give to Jim for—not Christmas.  Jim didn’t celebrate Christmas.  As some sort of token to acknowledge their relationship, then.  The owner smiled as Sebastian ran past, remembering him from his last transaction even though it had happened over a month ago.

Running let him clear his mind.  He knew he didn’t look like the meditative type, but sitting on a roof for eight hours waiting to shoot someone and living alone both left him far too much time to _think_.  Running was an escape from that: the constant slap of shoe on pavement was order without destruction, accompanied by blissful silence.

Not today—today, Sebastian’s mind found itself wandering off to questions he didn’t want to answer, questions about him and Jim and— _no_.  Today was his day off; if he wasn’t working, he wouldn’t think about his boss.  Instead, if his mind refused to stay quiet, he would plan out the rest of his day.  He could go to the shooting range and—no.  Putting effort into honing his particular skill set, while a good use of his time, was still technically work related. 

If not that, then…he could go to the history museum.  Alone.  Or go watch Manchester play at a bar.  By himself.  Or go see some crap movie at the cinema.  Without Jim. 

Sometimes, Sebastian wished he didn’t ever get days off.

He stopped running and tucked himself under the awning of a café when he felt his phone vibrate.  _One new message_ , the screen read.  Jim.  It must be; he was practically the only person who ever texted him, and certainly the only one who ever tried to contact him this early in the morning.

For a moment, Sebastian contemplated slipping the phone back into his pocket.  After last night, he really didn’t feel like talking to Jim.  The man had insulted him, threatened him, and had been with another man—

As though any of those things were unusual occurrences.  More importantly, ignoring Jim when he tried to contact him could be fatal.  Reluctantly, he read the message.

_Going into the freezer.  Door’s unlocked.  If you don’t hear from me in 30 minutes, come check on me, yeah?  -xoxo_

“Damn it, Jim,” Sebastian muttered under his breath.  Now he had to turn around and go back to his flat _just in case_ Jim needed him to come save him from hypothermia. The man really had no consideration, did he?  Jim _knew_ Sebastian was out on his run, and he just _had_ to force him to cut his workout routine short to accommodate him, didn’t he?  Fucking prick. 

Maybe he would just keep running and let Jim fucking freeze to death.  Maybe he didn’t care.

Another text lit up the screen: _Oh, and if you have to drop by, do be quiet and courteous.  We wouldn’t want to wake my guest, would we?_

Just great.  Not only did Sebastian have to bend over backwards for Jim, but he had to walk on his tiptoes to make sure Jim’s “guest” wasn’t disturbed in his sleep.  Fucking dandy.

If Sebastian had been in a better mood, he might have asked himself, _since when does Jim_ not _kill his one night stands?_ and contemplate the nature of Jim’s mysterious guest, but Sebastian was not in a better mood, so instead he typed the letter “K” into his message composer and sent it.  Just because he had to be Jim’s nanny didn’t mean he couldn’t be passive-aggressive. 

Back at his flat, Sebastian rewarded himself for his run with a glass of water before scavenging through his fridge, selecting three-day old sweet and sour chicken for his morning meal.  _Breakfast of champions,_ he thought as he shoveled the food into his mouth quickly. 

Just as Sebastian settled into his couch to watch the morning news, his phone’s screen lit up.  _Got out just fine, no thanks to you_.  Sebastian rolled his eyes at the message.  So it was one of _those_ mornings.

 _i wasnt under the impression you needed me for anything,_ he typed, slamming his thumb on the “send” button aggressively.  The lack of grammar was intentional; Sebastian knew Jim hated it when people refused to take the time to spell things out properly—Jim had actually shot someone because of it, once.  Maybe the lack of capitalization and apostrophes was childish, but fuck it.  He was tired of putting up with Jim’s crap.

_If you refuse to punctuate properly, I will ignore you._

_youre the_ _one who contacted me, what makes you think i want to talk to you_.  All he wanted was one day off to pretend like he wasn’t involved in a crime syndicate that stretched across the entire globe, one day to pretend like his life didn’t revolve around a mad genius who probably didn’t give two shits about him.  Apparently that was asking too much of Jim.

_Stop this at once, Sebastian.  I’m not happy with you either, and I certainly don’t wish to disturb you on your day off, but we need to talk business.  The project I am working on at the moment will require most of my attention for the next few weeks, and I need you to be in charge of the network for that time, starting now.  Do you understand?_

Sebastian blinked dumbly.  This—this had to be a joke.  Jim didn’t just let people be in charge of the network; the last time Sebastian had had to stand in for him, Jim was recovering from a second-degree burn that swallowed half his left arm, and even then, Jim had insisted that Sebastian step down after two days, because he was “doing it all wrong” and Jim “didn’t need his dominant hand to keep things from falling apart.”  Now Jim wanted Sebastian to be in control for over a week to allow Jim to work on some project?  _What?_

 _Boss, is this project safe?_   Sebastian typed, refraining from typing “are _you_ safe?” instead.  He couldn’t imagine any “project” that would consume all of Jim’s time that _wouldn’t_ be dangerous, and—well, since Jim wasn’t letting Sebastian in on the big secret, he couldn’t help but be concerned, even if he did want to half-throttle the man at the moment.

Sebastian’s phone vibrated, its screen lighting up with the words, _Aww, is my baby worried about me?  How sweet_.  (He chose not to dignify that with a response.)

The text was quickly followed by another: _Yes, tiger, I’m perfectly safe.  Although you can keep worrying about me if you like.  It’s kind of cute._   God, he was a prick.  The message did little to console Sebastian, however, as Jim’s definition of “safe” really didn’t mean anything. 

But the fake consolation was the best he would get, Sebastian knew, so he quickly typed up a reply.  _If you say so, boss.  Let me know if that changes and I’ll come get you._

Jim didn’t respond for a few minutes, but when he did, Sebastian found himself smiling despite himself.  _I know you will._

The next words that blinked on the screen were more than a little unexpected.  _What do you know about trichotillomania?_   Sebastian blinked, typing out _???_ in response.  He didn’t always know what to do when confronted with strange, long words, and he certainly didn’t know what to do when confronted with Jim coming to him with what looked like a hidden plea for advice.

 _It’s a hair pulling disorder_ , Jim said, and at that, Sebastian got off his couch, searching for his laptop to try and find some sort of answer for Jim, ignoring how Jim could just as easily run a Google search as he could.  In the time it took his laptop to boot up, however, Jim had already sent another text, this one saying, _Never mind; I forgot how incompetent you are._

Well, that didn’t feel good.  Actually, it felt like a challenge.  Sebastian typed the word into his search engine, scrolling through the results.  His brow furrowed as he read the information on the screen before him, and he found himself picking up his phone and sending a new message.  _Jim, are you okay?_

No response.

_Do you need me to come over?_

_Boss?_

Finally his phone chimed: _Don’t be stupid.  It’s not for me.  Get to work._

Whatever.  So much for being concerned.  Sebastian dropped his phone on the couch and got up to finish his workout, planning on letting his emotions out on the punching bag.

***

Jim was sitting on the couch, nursing a cup of tea and hiding under piles and piles of blankets to ward off the cold of the freezer that still clung to his skin.  Even with the protective gear Sebastian insisted he wear to keep him warm, the frigid temperatures had bit at his cheeks, and he kept scrunching and relaxing his face in an attempt to bring feeling back to it.   

Richard was fast asleep.  Jim would love to crawl into bed next to him and place his frozen hands on his brother’s stomach to warm them, but then Richard might wake up, and honestly, Jim was dreading that.  Dreading Richard waking up without medication running thick through his system, dreading his reaction to those bright white patches.  Dreading the inevitable fear that Jim wasn’t certain he could chase away. 

Jim had never confronted anything like this before—never before had he ever tried to _fix_ someone; his specialty was breaking others’ toys.  But he was determined to try.  For Richard.  Unfortunately, his web searches on compulsive hair pulling was coming up with far less information than he would like.  How irksome. 

His phone pinged with another text from his sniper, and Jim found himself typing out the last text he ever expected to send: _What do you know about trichotillomania?_   Maybe—just maybe—Sebastian would know something useful for once.  At the very least, he might be able to offer a normal-person opinion on whether or not Richard—who would remain nameless to Sebastian—would require therapy to treat his…illness?  Disorder?  What was he even supposed to call it?

Sebastian’s response of _???_ was less than illuminating.  Jim rolled his eyes and elaborated, saying, _It’s a hair pulling disorder_ , and took another sip of his tea, lip curling at the taste.  It was too sweet—next time, he would have to remember that five sugars was simply too many.  Deciding the cup wasn’t worth finishing, Jim rose and dumped the tea into the sink.

Sebastian hadn’t replied by the time Jim returned to his nest on the couch, so Jim scowled and typed _Never mind; I forgot how incompetent you are_ while burrowing deep into his blankets.  ‘Incompetent’ was generous, really, Jim thought, staring out the window into the grey morning and conjuring a litany of biting insults to throw at his sniper.  Jim rarely meant any of the insults; Sebastian could hardly help being so dull and stupid—everyone (except Jim) was, after all.  It was a little just fun to see how far he could push Sebastian before he snapped.  Hadn’t happened yet, surprisingly.  Poor baby must really care.

“James?”

Richard, now awake, was padding softly down the hall, calling out again and again for his brother.  Jim smiled, letting Richard struggle for a moment longer before saying, “Good morning, Richard.”

“James!” Richard exclaimed, turning to walk towards the couch.  “I thought—thought you had gone into work or something, maybe.  Um.”  He reached to scratch his head, and Jim tensed, but Richard did not seem to notice the shortness of his hair.  Crisis averted.  For now.

“Richard, will you be a dear and put the kettle on?  I’d like a cup of tea.”  Never mind that he was perfectly capable of doing the task himself.  What was the point of letting his brother live with him for free if he couldn’t sometimes use him  as a man-slave?

“Oh, um…sure,” Richard said, obediently heading towards the kitchen.  There was a ping of the kettle being set back on the stove and a quiet rush of gas blooming into a flame underneath it, followed by the muted tapping of Richard’s bare feet as he wandered around the kitchen and an “Um, James?  What’s this?”

Richard stood in the entrance of the kitchen, holding a frozen bowl of tomato soup for Jim to see.  “It was in the sink,” he elaborated.

“Oh honey,” Jim said smoothly, “that’s from the freezer.  I’m letting it unthaw.  Put it back in the sink, yes?”

“Alright,” Richard nodded, turning back towards the kitchen.  “Do you want me to take care of it later?”

“No, I’ll handle it.  Will you come sit with me?”

“Of course, James,” Richard said, practically skipping back towards the couch.  Jim noticed that when Richard slipped under the blankets he tangled his legs between Jim’s to get even closer to him.  _What a good boy_.

“Morning, Jamie,” Richard whispered, bringing back Jim’s nickname from childhood.  If anyone else tried to use the name, they would be choking on their own blood before they could blink—but Richard was special, so very special, wasn’t he?  So instead of slicing Richard’s throat open (which, given their proximity and Richard’s general lack of awareness, wouldn’t be all that hard), Jim responded by gently pressing his lips against Richard’s—a reward for good behavior. 

Richard hummed happily in response, and Jim took this as a signal that he was allowed to slip his tongue into his brother’s mouth.  It wasn’t actually new territory for them (Jim had introduced tongue into their kisses when they were about five and a half, explaining that “that’s what grown-ups do when they love each other,” but that Richard wasn’t allowed to “tell anyone, even Ma,” and Richard had reacted positively to the soft, sloppy feeling of something fleshy in his mouth), but given the space of twenty years, Jim wouldn’t be surprised if Richard was more than a little hesitant to pick up from where they had been before their world fell to pieces.

The breathy little moans and needy hands pulling at Jim’s shirt told Jim more than a “yes, please” ever could, but Jim figured it would be good for his image if he at least _pretended_ that Richard was able to say no if he wanted, so after a few seconds, Jim pulled back and asked, “Is this okay?” 

The answer was yes, of course, but Jim wasn’t the only one who liked to play games, so Richard smiled slowly and said, “You know, I’m not sure yet.  You’ll have to do it again so I can make up my mind.”

Jim didn’t need to be told twice; he was on Richard again in an instant, grabbing at him a hint more vigorously—but not too much so.  Richard didn’t want to be handled roughly, and Jim was willing to accommodate that.  He would come around eventually. 

(Somewhere, Jim heard his phone vibrating, but he did nothing to answer what was surely a desperate, confused message from his sniper.  Right now, Richard was so much more fun.  Sebby-dearest needed to step up his game.)

“James,” Richard panted, and oh, wasn’t that just perfect?  Not as perfect as Richard’s discreet thrusts against Jim’s legs, the movements so small that Jim surely wasn’t meant to feel them.  It was possible Richard wasn’t even aware of them, the poor, ignorant thing.  Stupidity was such an ugly look on everyone else, but Richard wore it well.  Made it beautiful.  If that wasn’t an accomplishment, Jim didn’t know what was.

After a heated minute, Jim broke the kiss to just look into Richard’s eyes, because Richard seemed like the romantic type and would probably like that.  Richard blinked when Jim pulled back, staring into Jim’s eyes like he was looking into the face of a god.  Eventually, he glanced away and whispered, “James, can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“James…” The red of Richard’s already flushed cheeks deepened, and he took Jim’s hands and confessed, “James, I really like kissing you.”

Jim fought to suppress a laugh.  “Honey, I don’t know if that’s really a secret.”

“Well, nobody else knows,” Richard frowned.

“No, I suppose they don’t,” Jim agreed, rubbing a hand down Richard’s back.  Richard hummed happily and curled even closer to Jim, and Jim found himself thinking that maybe he didn’t need to ruin Richard’s lovely little morning by telling him about his hair.  Maybe he could just wait and see how long it took his oblivious twin to realize it was missing.

No—Richard would probably be furious if Jim didn’t let him know, but if Jim played his cards correctly when breaking the news, it was possible he could make Richard even more dependent on him than he was at the moment.  Oh, yes.  That’s what he would do.

 “Richie?” Jim asked, looking down at the small form curled around him.  “How much of yesterday do you remember?”

“Um, not a lot,” Richard answered, his voice light with fake humor.  “I remember meeting Anna, and snuggling with you in bed, and you talking about your boyfriend, and…that’s about it.”  He paused.  “James, if you have a boyfriend, why are you kissing me?”

“Richard…I don’t have a boyfriend,” Jim said slowly.  _Really?_ Jim thought.  _He doesn’t remember his missing hair but he_ does _remember me talking about_ that? 

Richard’s eyebrows scrunched together in a manner Jim could only describe as endearing.  “But James, yesterday you said that you were—”

“What I said yesterday doesn’t matter, Richard.  It wasn’t exactly true, anyway.”

“But James—” 

Richard’s protests were in vain.  Jim silenced him with a kiss to the forehead, whispering, “Richie, there’s no one else but you.  Promise.”  This wasn’t quite true—even as Jim spoke, he felt his mobile vibrating for the third time somewhere down near his foot.  Hmm. 

Well, it was true enough for this week, anyway.  Richard and Sebastian didn’t need to know about each other. 

Richard seemed to finally accept the lie Jim was feeding him, because he snuggled in closer to his brother and let out a sigh of satisfaction.  Good.  He was comfortable, happy. 

Time to break that.

After pausing for a moment to reply to his needy sniper (“It’s just one of my associates, Richard.  He keeps insisting that we meet up today.  Poor dear doesn’t understand that’s not going to happen.”), Jim breathed in deep and filled his voice with trepidation.  “Richard…” he began, “there’s something you need to know.”

“Hmm?”

Jim slipped on a scared stutter as easily as he would an old t-shirt.  “It’s…it’s really important, Richard, so…could you sit up, please?”

“Um, okay,” Richard replied, scrambling to get into that criss-cross apple-sauce position from his childhood as quickly as possible to comply with Jim’s request.  Jim mirrored his position, letting his knees rest against his brother’s and taking his hands in his own.

“Richard, what I’m about to tell you might be…a little anxiety-inducing for you, but I need you to try and not panic.  Can you do that for me?”

No, Richard could _not_ do that for Jim.  The sentence alone made his eyes fly open and his hands gravitate towards the sleeves of the shirt he had worn to bed.  Jim could feel his precious little pulse fluttering far too quickly in his wrist.  But all Richard wanted to do was do as Jim asked, so he gulped, nodded, and said, “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Okay.”  Jim paused, letting Richard’s anxiety boil.  “Richard…I’ve noticed that you pull your hair out when you get scared.”

“What?”

Richard was staring with those big eyes and biting down on his lip so hard that the flesh was turning white.  Then he started talking, his words falling out in a constant, panicked stream: “How—did I—how—James what are you talking about I don’t do that, I don’t, I don’t, I—

“Oh my God.”  Richard had pulled his hands to his face to protect him from Jim’s eyes, but his hand had brushed against the exposed white spots his hair no longer hid.  “Don’t look at me,” he whimpered, his body curling in on itself until he looked so, so small.  “Please, don’t look at me, James.”

“Richard—”

He was crying, his sobs tearing his fragile body to shreds.  Jim hated him now, didn’t he?  Oh, what was he going to do now?  He crawled to the other side of the couch and pressed his face into one of the decorative pillows so he didn’t have to look at Jim and see the look of disgust he was surely giving him.  Maybe if he pressed hard enough, he could suffocate and just die of shame right there. 

And to think that, moments before, his brother had been giving him these beautiful, deep, penetrative kisses.  How had things gone so wrong?

That’s right.  Richard was a freak.  That’s just how things went with him.

“Richard, please calm down.  It’s okay,” Jim said, pushing aside the blanket to close the space that separated them. 

Richard was having none of these comforts, however. “It’s _not_ okay, though!  It’s not!” he screeched, face still pressed to the pillow.  “James please…please don’t make me leave.  I don’t know what I’ll do…”

“Richie, why would I make you leave?” Jim asked, taking care to exaggerate his confused tone.  “You’re my brother.  I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He ran his hand down Richard’s back, and the poor, frightened thing melted into the comfort of his hand.  “Really?” he asked, his body starting to shake just a little less.

“Yes, Richard.  This morning, I was looking up ways to help you stop pulling your hair, and if you’d like, I can make an appointment with a psychologist for you.  I’m going to fix you, okay?”

Finally, Richard stopped suffocating himself with the pillow, doing his best to meet his brother’s gaze.  He stared, eyes still bleeding with residual fear and lips twisting to contain bursts of disbelief and gratefulness that threatened to break free, before finally settling on the most concise way to express his emotions: “I love you, James.”

“I know you do,” James murmured.  “Now come give me a hug, yes?”

Richard crawled to his brother and buried his face in Jim’s chest.  “Are you sure I can stay?” he whispered, his fingers quivering uncontrollably as they threaded through the folds of Jim’s shirt.

“Oh, Richie,” Jim laughed, “I wouldn’t let you leave even if you wanted to.” 


	8. To Hell in a Hat Basket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, remember how I said this chapter was going to be short, therefore out sooner? That, uh, didn't happen; this is currently the longest chapter in the whole story. I have no idea why, it just sort of...happened. Whoops. 
> 
> EDIT: I wanted to post by the 14th, but that doesn't seem like it will be happening. The next chapter is in in the works, but it's nowhere near finished. Progress is sluggish and the prose feels uninspired. I don't want to post something I'm not relatively satisfied with, so unfortunately, it will be a while, and I can't make any promises for how long "a while" will be this time. Sorry about the wait. 
> 
> I know I've been saying this at the beginning of every chapter, but I just want to thank you guys again for sticking around and reading this far. Your comments/kudos/general support make this way more fun. You're awesome, hope you enjoy, see you in February.

It had been a Wednesday when Jim promised Richard that he would fix him.  He had pushed a fairly unattractive beanie clearly made for outdoor use over his brother’s ears, explaining that it was a barrier to keep him from pulling, and sprayed Richard’s hand with perfume, claiming that Richard would smell his hand if he brought it to his face and would recognize he was about to yank his hair out.  Next, he pulled out a leather-bound journal, insisting that Richard use it to track his progress and write out his emotions every day.  Richard questioned exactly how much of this was really necessary—while the hat seemed like a good idea, and Richard had actually used a journal since he was ten (before his living situation sort of…got in the way), he didn’t know how effective the perfumed hand would be, but after deciding it was better that Jim was spritzing his hand with grapefruit body spray than kicking him back onto the streets, concluded he was grateful anyway.

Next came the clothes.  Jim had led Richard into his walk-in closet, gesturing to a shelf that hadn’t been there the day before and saying, “This is for you.”  Richard’s draw dropped as he ran his fingers over the cardigans and the sweaters and the tight tissue tees, all lying in wait for him to claim.  “They’re so soft,” he murmured, so awestruck that he had forgotten to say thank you.  They were beautiful, too—rich burgundies and deep teals and soft creams.

“These are yours, also,” Jim said, gesturing to hooks hanging above the shelf that dripped with scarves.  “I thought maybe you’d like them.”

“Jim—how did you do this?” Richard finally managed after the shock had worn off. 

“Never mind how,” Jim replied.  “Let’s go take a bath and we’ll play dress-up after, alright?”

And so they did.

***

Now it was Sunday.  The days in between were unimportant—each an impossible, sparkling gem, but each the same as the one before.  They attempted to bake cookies on one of the days; the poor sugary things turned to ash in the oven, but Richard ate them all anyway.  Another day, Jim introduced Richard to his private pool.  Richard struggled to wrap his head around how he could be suspended in an artificial ocean and looking out over the city below him at the same time.  Without the way the chlorine constantly assaulted his nose and Jim’s swim trunks threatened to fall from his hips, it wouldn’t have felt real. 

“Makes you feel like you own the world,” Jim murmured, eyes hungry as he gazed over the sprawling London streets.  “Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” 

The view didn’t make Richard feel like he owned anything; it just made him feel like he was floating.  Floating in a fantasy, in an impossible world—because any world where he and Jim were going to live together forever in a penthouse with a pool overlooking the city just couldn’t be real.  At any moment, Jim would grab him and pull him out of this dream, gesticulating about how he was bored of being the benefactor of someone so pathetic they couldn’t hold down a job, couldn’t take care of themselves.  And then he would toss Richard from the balcony jutting out from the master bedroom, and then there would be a crunch, and shock, and probably not much after that. 

And Richard would deserve it, would _deserve_ being thrown from his brother’s home, because what had he ever done to earn this?  He was a leech.  Jim deserved someone better.  The more he contemplated it, Richard felt that he must be falling from Jim’s graces, even now.  He _had_ to be.  Fear coiled in his stomach, the water turned to ice, and he needed to leave.  Leave the pool and the windows with a view meant for a monarch, leave before he threw up.

He blamed the nausea on the chlorine.  Jim pressed a kiss to his cheek and took his hands and suggested they relax in the living room, and Richard closed his eyes and imagined that maybe, instead of falling, he was flying.

***

Now it was Sunday.  Richard and Jim hadn’t gone out into the real world since the trip to the salon, and Richard was starting to think that maybe they could just curl up inside the penthouse and stay there forever.  Jim had other plans, however; not only had he scheduled an appointment with a therapist for Richard the next day, but he announced that he was going to take Richard on an adventure that afternoon, right after they finished breakfast. 

It wasn’t a _real_ adventure, not by Jim’s standards—just a trip around downtown.  It was more than enough adventure for Richard, though, who was still amazed that Jim had a car with leather seats and a stoic driver to match, who still marveled at watching the people walking down the street from behind a pane of glass instead of from the shade of an alley. 

“Where are we going today?” Richard asked, his eyes taking in everything from the dusty grey of the car’s ceiling to the sweatered dachshund on the sidewalk to the crack of blue in the sky to the intoxicating concave curve of Jim’s woolen jacket.  He felt his heart rate pick up, because—because wasn’t it just wonderful, to live in a world where his brother was beautiful and the sun was shining and he wasn’t hungry?  Just wonderful.

“Not telling,” Jim chuckled, folding his fingers around one of Richard’s stray hands.  “Oh, come on, Richie,” he said when he noticed his brother’s face had contorted in a frown.  “Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now, would it?”

Richard sighed.  “I guess not.”  So he stared out the window and held Jim’s hand and decided that he didn’t need to know where his life was headed, because Jim knew, and that’s what mattered.

Jim told the driver to park next to a quaint mom-and-pop joint with a proud little sign that declared The Hat Basket in a gentle handwritten font.  Richard stared at it and blinked, wondering if he had seen it before and never took notice, or if Jim had simply conjured it out of nothing.  If perhaps his brother had simply wanted a hat store and so there was one.  

Jim, courteous as ever, held the door open for Richard, and the two tumbled inside together.  Richard had never seen so many hats in his life.  They crawled up the walls like ivy, threatening to explode from the store and sweep down the streets of London in a great flood of headwear.  The clashing colors and textures threatened to scream out in a horrid cacophony, but something about the rag-tag mixture seemed harmonious.  Lovely, even.  Richard couldn’t tell if he was overwhelmed or in love or something in between.

“What are we doing here?” he asked, turning to Jim. 

“That black thing I’m letting you borrow isn’t pretty enough for you,” Jim said, gesturing to the hat on Richard’s head.  “I thought we could get you something nice.”

“Thank you,” Richard whispered, left a little speechless by Jim’s generosity.  He was just going to buy Richard a new hat, even when Richard hadn’t done anything other than yank out his own hair to earn it?  Richard was sure he was glowing from how loved he felt, because, oh, Jim really loved him, didn’t he?  It was too good, just too good.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Jim replied, resting his hand on Richard’s back before nodding to the sleepy man at the register and leading him away from the door and into the depths of the store.  “I’m more than happy to take care of you.  Let’s look at hats, yeah?”

Richard found himself in front of a full length mirror, a wicker basket at his feet for whatever lucky hat he decided to take home.  Jim was roaming the store, plucking hats seemingly at random from the shelves and throwing them onto Richard’s head.  Sometimes he would pause and ask, “Do you like that one?” before yanking it off Richard and tossing it to the ground; other times, he would mutter something like “hmm” or “no, not that” or, occasionally, “absolutely not,” before Richard could even register a new hat had been placed on his head.

“James, slow down!”  Richard finally exclaimed.  “I can’t pick out a hat if I don’t even have a chance to look at the selection!”

“Fine,” Jim grumbled, his mouth sliding into a pout.  “What do you want me to do, then?”

“Um…can you bring me hats to try on?  And then let me take them off my head when I’m ready?”  That would be specific enough instructions, right?

“Fine.” Jim stalked away to procure more hats, and Richard looked around at the litter around his feet to find something to try on.  Nothing Jim had selected was at all practical—at the corner of the mess was a thick furry affair that looked like it had been imported directly from Russia, with a chef’s hat sitting right next to it.  _What would I ever want with a chef’s hat?_ Richard wondered as he shuffled through the rest of the mess.

He wasn’t left with much time to question his brother’s fashion sense—which he had, until now, held in very high esteem—before Jim came up behind him, asking, “What about this one?!” and attempting to jostle Richard into a bonnet Little Bo Peep could have worn. 

“James, what would I ever want with a bonnet?” Richard asked, staring at the baby pink of the ribbon tied under his chin.  Really, this was ridiculous.  He was a grown man. 

“Oh, that’s precious,” Jim breathed, ignoring Richard’s question completely and instead running a hand across Richard’s lips.  “We’re getting this one for sure.”

“No, James!  This is humiliating!  I’m twenty-seven, and you’re not putting me in a baby bonnet!” 

 “ _Fine,_ ” Jim groaned.  “You’re no fun.  Let me take a picture first?” he asked, looking at Richard intently.

“What?  What for?”

“Let me take a picture,” Jim said, ignoring the question completely as he pulled his phone from his pocket and fumbled with the controls.  Richard stood still, smiling all pretty for his brother, because it was easier to follow commands than question them.

“Good boy,” Jim crooned, grinning at his phone and slipping it into his pocket like nothing had happened.  “Maybe you’ll like this one better instead?”

“James, that’s a top hat.”

“So?”

“People don’t wear top hats anymore!”

“Maybe they should.  They make a statement.  And they’re great for throwing.”  Jim demonstrated with a flick of the rest that sent the hat careening like a Frisbee into a shelf of hats halfway across the store, knocking them from their nests.

“James,” Richard whispered, “could we…not throw hats around the store?  We might get kicked out.”

Jim rolled his eyes, saying, “That’s really not something you need to worry about,” but walked over to retrieve the top hat and its fallen comrades all the same.  Richard tiptoed around the hats at his feet to assist Jim, because judging by his general behavior in the store thus far, Richard really didn’t trust Jim to put the hats back where they went by himself. 

“Hmm, what about this one?” Jim said absentmindedly as they put back the hats that had been knocked down.  “Or maybe this one?”  Richard didn’t have time to blink before Jim was piling hats on his head again; he counted, four, then five, before he tried to grab Jim’s hands to get him to calm down.

“James, we’re trying to put the hats _up_ where they _belong_ ,” Richard said, pulling whatever was at the top of his leaning tower of hats off his head and studying it.  It was a ten gallon hat, one of those things made famous by American westerns.  _…Why?  Just…why?_  he asked himself, before deciding that maybe there just wasn’t an answer.

“I _am_ putting them where they belong!” Jim insisted.  “Hats belong on heads, not shelves, Richard!”

And wasn’t that strange—the way Jim said it, Richard felt hopelessly stupid, and yet _he_ wasn’t the one trying to tear down the entire store.  “Okay…I see what you’re saying,” Richard started, “but we need to put the hats back on the shelves before—”

“Is everything all right, boys?”  The man at the register had left his post, and was now looming over them with a face that looked half amused and half concerned about the fate of his shop. 

Richard gulped.  “We’ll clean it all up, I promise.”

“Alright.  Let me know if you need help finding something,” the man replied, returning to his register.  Richard spent a moment trying to figure out why the man was so content to let them demolish his store.  It wasn’t like a specialty store like this could really expect many customers; maybe he would just let those who wandered in do whatever they wanted.  That must be it.  (Of course that wasn’t the case—Jim had written the man a check that would triple the sum of his bank account if he would agree to let Jim and Richard do whatever they wanted earlier while he was browsing for hats, but Richard didn’t need to know that.)

“What about this one?” Jim asked, his face lit up in a smile.  Richard just let out a sigh at the sight of the next hat—it was a neon green stegosaurus pretending to be a piece of clothing.  This was going too far.

“Do you want me to try on that hat for you, James?” he asked, deciding it was probably just going to be easier to let Jim have his fun than actually shop for something. 

Jim nodded enthusiastically, and Richard pulled the hat over his ears.  It wasn’t a bad hat, per se.  Comfortable, and it covered all his hair.  It was just—it was a dinosaur hat.  Jim couldn’t be serious.

Except he was.  “I like that one,” he said, and when Richard couldn’t detect any sense of humor in his voice, he nodded and let his resolve crumble.

“We can put it in the ‘maybe’ pile.”

“That’s fantastic, Richard.  What about this one?” Jim said, now offering a classy black beret.  Richard took off the dinosaur hat and slipped the French thing on his head, evaluating.

“This one doesn’t work.  It doesn’t cover enough of my head,” he said, gesturing to how easy it would be to pull while wearing this hat.  Jim nodded understandingly before pulling out a bright orange hard hat meant for a construction worker.  Richard groaned internally and placed it on his head.

***

They had been in the shop for, by Richard’s estimate, an hour and a half.  So far, five customers other than them had entered the store to browse—at the first, Richard’s face had flushed with embarrassment; by the fifth, Richard hardly paid them any notice. 

Richard had tentatively approved six hats, including the dinosaur one, and had vetoed countless others.  He was fairly certain they would have to go through the entire store for Jim’s obsession with strange headwear to be satiated—and for Richard to find something he could imagine himself actually wearing. 

Finally Richard decided he would need to take on the search himself if he wanted it to be at all successful.  “James, can you stay here and start to put some of these hats back?  I’d like to go take a walk around the store myself, if that’s okay.”

“What?  Am I doing a bad job picking out hats?  I just wanted to have a nice selection, you know,” Jim answered, not looking too happy about Richard’s proposition.

“No, you’ve done a fine job,” Richard assured, “but I’ve never been in a store with this many hats before, and I’d just like to see what there is.  Would that be okay?”

“Fine,” Jim mumbled, looking glumly at the pinstriped fedora in his lap.  Richard prayed to a higher power that Jim wouldn’t fling it across the store before turning away to browse, basket in hand.

When he started looking through the store himself, he started to understand why Jim had been bringing him such obscure hats to wear.  The flashy hats practically screamed for attention, begged to be tried on, whereas the softer, less obnoxious hats hid, almost like they were ashamed of themselves.  Just like him.

It took a while, but Richard’s hands finally landed on a creamy knitted thing that looked a tad bit disheveled, like maybe someone had bought it and returned it when they realized they didn’t really want it, or maybe someone like Jim had gotten their fingers on it and it had come away the worse for wear. 

 Richard slipped it on his head and turned to a nearby mirror, feeling a wave of satisfaction sweep over him.  Yes.  This would do.  It was soft and warm and it covered all of his hair, and best of all, it wasn’t a neon green dinosaur.  It was perfect.

On his way back to Jim’s side, he returned the other “maybe” hats to their proper homes to save time.  As he worked his way around the store, however, he found himself deciding he would give Jim a taste of his own medicine.  After all, he had just spent over an hour trying on hats to appease his brother; it was time he had some fun of his own.

 _What is the one kind of hat Jim would absolutely hate?_   Judging from what he had seen, loud and bombastic was actually Jim’s preference.  But then, when they had entered the store, Jim had remarked that the black hat he had let Richard borrow was ugly, which, after the hats Richard had seen today, was a strange thing to say.  It was so…so commonplace.  _Ordinary_. 

That was it, wasn’t it?  Jim loved shock value; he would just _hate_ a hat that looked like any run-of-the-mill plebian might wear it.  Surely Richard could find one of those. 

His eyes alighted on a navy baseball cap right in front of him.  Oh, it was terrible—just terrible.  The word London was splayed across the forehead in a bland red, and the Union Jack crept down its left side, and Richard had never seen anything that screamed “tourist!” quite so loudly. 

 _James will hate this_ , Richard thought, and giggled as he pulled it off the shelf before heading towards the mess he and Jim (mostly Jim) had made in the back of the store.

 Surprisingly, Jim had managed to clean up the whole mess in the time it took Richard to find two hats.  (Jim hadn’t actually cleaned the mess up; he had shoved the hats haphazardly onto the shelves around the mirror they had been using, because he had paid good money to be able to tear the store apart if he so wished, and he had no intention of putting the hats back like he was supposed to.)  Now he was texting on his phone, his eyebrow twitching now and again. 

Richard snuck up behind him and snapped the baseball cap over Jim’s head before he could figure out what was going on.  “What about _this_ one?” he asked, echoing the phrase Jim had repeated over and over in the hour before.

Jim’s fingers froze, and he looked up slowly into the mirror, his face horrified.  For a moment, Richard thought he had done something terribly wrong.  Was Jim going to be mad?  He wasn’t—he wouldn’t get mad over just a little hat, right?  Jim wouldn’t do that.  He _wouldn’t_.

Jim rolled his head and smoothed his tongue over his lips, thinking.  Richard felt like he was choking on the moment, just waiting for Jim to come unhinged. 

Not that he thought Jim was like that; Jim wasn’t bad.  He wasn’t. 

Finally, Jim nodded and smiled, and Richard could breathe again.  “Did you pick this out for me?” he asked, turning to look at Richard, who, instead of admitting his original intentions of trying to see if he could get a rise out of him, nodded his head, mimicking excitement and a dutiful will to serve.

“I like it,” Jim said, deep in thought.  “Frames my face well.  Anyhow, did you find something for yourself?”

“Wait—you like it?”  Richard stuttered, unable to move past this revelation.  Jim was supposed to hate it, was supposed to find it ugly and stupid.  Why…?

“Sure,” Jim said, shrugging like it didn’t much matter one way or the other.  “Don’t you want me to?”

“I just…I just wasn’t sure is all,” Richard said quietly.

“Oh, Richie, don’t look so glum,” Jim said, rising to meet his brother.  “I like it.  I’m sure I’ll find a very special occasion for it, don’t you think?”

“…Yeah.”

“Alright, what did you find for yourself, then?”

Richard held the soft little cream cap up, hoping it would meet Jim’s standards.  His hands shook as he presented it to his brother.

“That’s nice, Richard,” Jim said, nodding in approval.  “Although I’ll be honest: I would prefer the dinosaur one, myself.”

Richard nodded.  He didn’t really know what else he was supposed to say.

“I’m sorry if I scared you, Richard.  I didn’t mean to,” Jim breathed, running his hand down his brother’s arm to calm him.  “I like the hat.  Really.  You’re not in trouble.”

“Do you promise?” Richard asked.  He hated the way he was trembling.  Jim wasn’t scary.  Jim loved him and was going to take care of him.  He had no right to be afraid, especially over something so stupid and minute that was his fault anyway.

“Yes, Richie,” Jim said, wrapping his arms around his brother and holding him close.  “I promise.”

***

After a small quarrel over whether or not the dinosaur hat was worth purchasing now that Richard had found a hat for himself, the twins made their way over to the cash register and purchased their finds before climbing back into Jim’s car and falling back into the world where nothing existed except for them.  Jim pulled Richard’s borrowed black beanie from his head and ghosted his fingers over the barren spots it had covered before pulling the new hat down to Richard’s ears, and Richard sat, shaking like a scared animal and wondering how his brother managed to be so beautiful.  Maybe Jim knew what Richard was thinking, because he pulled Richard in for another one of those sweet kisses, and Richard grasped at Jim’s back and decided that no, it wasn’t possible to feel more loved.

As the car drifted past building after building after building, Richard curled into Jim’s side and reaffirmed his staunch belief that this perfect moment with him and Jim and nothing else was all he could ever need.  Jim, however, wasn’t content with just this, apparently—right when Richard was about to fall asleep, he spoke to the driver, commanding him to park on the side of the road.

“What are we going?” Richard asked, lifting his head from Jim’s shoulder.

“I’m going to meet with a client,” Jim said nonchalantly.  “He wanted to meet up today, and I wasn’t planning on it, but since I’m in town, I might as well.”

“Oh.”  For a moment, Richard’s heart sunk.  He had pictured this day as just him and his brother running around town, or the flat, or—it didn’t matter _where_ , as long as it was just _them._   Then again, he still didn’t really know what it was Jim did, exactly; Jim hadn’t bothered to elaborate about his work since the first night.  Maybe this would be an opportunity to see what Jim did firsthand.  That sounded fun.  Richard looked up, asking, “Can I come?” with a smile.

There was a snort, followed by a laugh and a sharp “ _No_.”  Jim gave him a pitying glance before his driver opened his door and he stepped out.  Alone. 

“Why not?” Richard whined.  “I’ll be quiet and you won’t even know I’m there!  Please?”

“Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t think business and family should ever mingle.  I’ll be back before you know it.  Humphrey will take good care of you.”

Richard blinked, wondering who _Humphrey_ was before realizing Jim was referring to the driver, and slumped back into his seat, defeated.  He just—he just wanted—

Jim shot him a sad half-frown and murmured “I love you.”  Richard looked up and was about to return the phrase, but the car door shut on him before he could manage.

***

Sebastian sat on the edge of the fountain, scowling at the crowd milling about with the crotchetiest old man expression he could possibly manage.  He couldn’t understand why so many people decided they wanted to be out and about on a bleary Sunday afternoon, in the thick of January, at Trafalgar Square of all places.  There wasn’t even anything to _do_ there, other than look at statues that didn’t change and sneak food to pigeons, and really, how interesting were either of those things?  Surely they couldn’t compare to curling up with a nice hot drink at home.  _They all must be tourists,_ he decided.

He wasn’t a tourist, though; he was a stupid pushover of a man waiting for a—boyfriend?  Partner?  Fuckbuddy?  Employer?  God, life would make a lot more sense if Jim would just stand up and define their relationship already—that wasn’t coming, because Jim was a fucking arsewipe who thought it was funny that Sebastian would sit out for three hours in the cold just because Jim asked for it.  _“Be there regardless; I will not have you standing me up,”_ Sebastian said, raising his voice about four octaves and tinting it with a poorly imitated brogue, then flipped the page of the book in his hand that he really wasn’t reading.

“Hello, sexy.”  The words were barely above a whisper, but they still made Sebastian drop his book on the ground.  Jim stooped to pick it up, handing it back with a smirk and a just as soft “Did you miss me?”

“Not really,” Sebastian shrugged, doing his best to hide his shock—and his pleasure that Jim really had bothered to show up, even if an hour late.

“Of course not,” Jim replied, smiling that stupid little smile Sebastian half wanted to wipe off with his fist and half wanted to return.  “Nice book,” he continued, nodding to Sebastian’s lap.  “ _Lord Jim_.  Read it myself a few years back.  My favorite part was definitely the title.”

“Uh—yeah.” 

“So, how far along are you?  Wouldn’t want to spoil anything.”

 _A reading quiz?  Really?_   “At the—uh—the part where Lord Jim throws a banquet and they, uh…yeah.”

Jim’s eyes sparkled as he laughed.  “Oh come on, Sebby.  I know you’re not _really_ reading it. Bet you didn’t make it past the second paragraph.  Conrad’s prose isn’t for the faint of heart.”

“Um…yeah,” Sebastian sighed, defeated.  “That’s a nice coat,” he said finally, because it really was (Sebastian was particularly fond of the way it clung to Jim’s narrow frame), and Jim liked receiving flattery, so everybody won.

“Oh, thanks,” Jim said, beaming in a way Sebastian could only wish was sincere.  “Stole it off a dead man.”

“Really?”  Sebastian doubted Jim was being honest, but then again, if anyone was running around and stealing fine clothing from corpses, it would probably be Jim.

“No. Yes.  Is there really a _difference_?”  Jim shrugged like it didn’t matter, like nothing mattered, and then punctuated this philosophical nougat with a drink of whatever was in that paper cup of his.

The drink reminded him of something: “Oh yeah, this is for you,” Jim declared with another smile.  “A treat for being such a good boy and waiting out in the cold for me.  I know how you feel about the cold.” 

“I _know_ you know,” Sebastian muttered to himself, but he took the drink all the same, because it really was cold outside, and he could use something hot in him.  Jim grinned—leered?—when Sebastian took the drink in hand, and Sebastian felt its weight.  It felt…off?

Taking off its lid, Sebastian quickly realized what happened.  “Jim, you drank over half of this.”

Jim nodded, his face contorted in an apparently traumatizing memory.  “It was horrible.  I don’t understand how you can take your coffee black.”

“If it was so horrible, why did you keep drinking it?” Sebastian asked, unable to keep that condescending tone usually reserved for small children out of his voice.

“It was cold!  You didn’t want me to freeze on the way over, did you?”

“You could have gotten your own—”

“Are you accepting my generosity or not?” Jim said, his voice suddenly hard.

Sebastian let out a long sigh.  “Thank you for the coffee, Jim.  It means a lot to me that you thought of me on your way over.  To your date.  With me.”  Sometimes, Sebastian couldn’t tell if Jim was really trying to be a good little boyfriend and was just terrible at it, or if Jim just liked watching him suffer.

 “Now that you’re here, do you think we could move away from this fountain?” Sebastian asked.  “The spray keeps hitting the back of my neck and it isn’t the warmest thing in the world.”

“Oh, is my baby cold?” Jim stuck out his lip in a fake pout.  “I can think of some ways to warm you up…”

It was a tacky line; even worse was how Jim took it as an opportunity to start running a gloved hand up Sebastian’s thigh.  Usually Sebastian would have little qualms with public displays of affection, but it was _really_ cold out, and there was little ambience, and— 

“Jim, there are little kids here.”

“ _So?”_ Jim replied, never one for what others thought.  “Oh, fine.  If you don’t want to have any fun, I can just leave.”

“ _Jim_ —”

“Nope.  Too late.  I’m already gone,” Jim said, already standing up.  “Oh, but I do have an assignment for you.  You wanted to help with my project, yes?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said, nodding.  Finally he could be let in on the big secret.

“I need you to organize a team of professional shoppers to go out and buy all the discount Christmas decorations you can find.  Preferably nice ones.  They need to match my décor.  Be sure you get a tree; that’s the most important part.  And I need you to store them in your flat until I say so.  Think you can manage that?”

“…What?”  Jim had asked Sebastian to do a lot of strange, stupid things over the years they had known each other, but this might take the cake.  Jim didn’t even _celebrate_ Christmas.  Neither of them did.  And—it was January.  Christmas had already happened.  And how did this even _relate_ to the project Jim _still_ hadn’t bothered explaining?  Just— _what?_

“Did I stutter?” Jim rolled his eyes.  “I’ll text you the details.  Anyway, I’m afraid I really must dash; I’ve wasted far too much time here.  My schedule will be tight for the next few weeks, and I’ll only be able to see you for about an hour and a half once a week, probably at around three in the afternoon, so keep yourself open at that time— ”

“Wait, why for an hour and a half?  And…once a week?  Jim, you’re not making any sense.”

“It’s for the project, moron.  Anyway—”

“Why can’t I just come over to your place in the evening?  Doesn’t that make more sense?”

Jim froze, his eyes threatening to bulge straight out of his head.  “Are you listening to _anything_ I am saying?  _Anything?!_   Sebastian, if you show up on my doorstep unauthorized, I will take a handheld mixer and stuff it up your arse.”

“Jim, that doesn’t sound like it would hurt that much.”

“It will be turned on, doofus.  Your anus will be shredded in seconds.”

“Alright then.  Looks like I won’t be seeing much of you for the next few weeks.”

“It’s a real shame, isn’t it?”  Jim said, his voice clearly expressing that it wasn’t much of a shame, not really.  “So if you were planning on kissing me anytime in the next week, you better do it now, unless, of course, you’re worried about violating the precious children with the facts of life.”

Sebastian took a moment to blink.  “Jim, you are the most demanding, obnoxious, moody, stuck-up _child_ I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.  I just thought you should know.”

“Yeah, yeah.  You going to kiss me or not?”

Of course he was.  Sebastian stood up and cupped Jim’s face between his hands before pressing in and smashing his lips against his employer’s.  Jim didn’t taste the same as usual—there was some saccharine secret hiding in his mouth, like he had been binging on candy and had forgotten to brush his teeth. 

Sebastian tried not to think about it.

Jim broke away after a heartbeat, smiling and spinning around and blowing a kiss, singing, “Bye, Sebby.  See you next week,” before slipping into the crowd and disappearing.  Sebastian turned away from the crowd, muttered “twat” under his breath, and walked to find a taxi cab to take him to wherever he could buy a discount Christmas tree. 

***

Back in the car, Richard was shaking.  It felt like it had been a lifetime since Jim had slammed the door on him and walked away, even if an hour hadn’t yet slipped past.  Even still.  It had been a while.  Far too long.  What if he wasn’t coming back?  What if Jim had left Richard in the car for some other man that was prettier than Richard would ever be, if he had left Richard all alone with a driver that wouldn’t say a word, in a car that had no food in it? 

What if—what if Jim had died?  What if his business meeting had gone sour, if he had taken a bullet to the chest or a knife to the throat?  That didn’t happen to lawyers, did it?  What if—what if he had gotten run over by a taxicab or a mad driver or a bus?  What if Jim’s body was bleeding out on the streets of London, never to find its way back to Richard?  Or if he wasn’t dead, but he was dying, and if Richard didn’t find him, then—

Richard’s heart was racing like a rabbit’s.  His whole body trembled in fear, in fear that was stupid, stupid, because that’s all he was.  Stupid and scared.  His head felt like it was on fire.  He felt, he _knew_ that the fear would wash away if he would just take his flimsy little hat off and pull, but then—but then Jim would be mad because he wanted Richard to stop, and then he would be in trouble, and oh.  Oh, God.  He didn’t want to make Jim mad.  He _couldn’t_ make Jim mad. 

But his meds weren’t there and he needed relief.  Jim wouldn’t notice if he pulled the hair from his arm, probably, so Richard checked to see if the driver was paying any attention to him (he wasn’t) before curling up into an inconspicuous ball and rolling up the right sleeve of his sweater.  He tried to grasp the thin hairs on his arm between his index finger and thumb, but they were so thin and slippery and short, and it was useless.  Useless.  Instead, he tried sort of scratching at his skin, tried digging his fingernails into it until it turned raw and pink, tried biting down on his tongue and the inside of his mouth.  It helped a little, but not _enough_ , never enough to fix it, never enough to fill him up the way Jim could. 

Oh, God.  When was Jim going to be _back_?

He tried distracting his mind, instead.  Tried counting from one to one hundred, tried reciting lyrics from pop songs on the radio and passages from the Bible from when he was a child and lines form the last play he had been in and the last words Jim had said to him.  _The Lord is my shepard, I shall not want.  Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt.  It’s the first kiss, it’s flawless.  I love you, I love you, I love you._  

The driver probably thought he was crazy, mumbling to himself in the back passenger seat.  Oh, that’s right, the driver.  Maybe the driver knew something. 

“Um, Humphrey?  Do you know where James is?”

The driver sighed and chuckled a little, but didn’t say anything more than that, so Jim tried again.  “How long do his meetings with clients usually take?”

Still nothing.  “Um, Humphrey?  Do you think maybe we should call him?  It’s been a really long time.”

“Okay, maybe it hasn’t been a long time, but I’m getting worried.  What if he needs help?  Humphrey?”

Finally, the driver shifted in his seat before saying “You really are new here, aren’t you?” in a voice thick with an Italian accent that didn’t seem like it belonged to a Humphrey. 

“Um, I guess I’m new?  Look, that’s not important.  Where’s James?  What’s going on?  Is your name even Humphrey?  Should I get out and look for him?  When is he coming back?  Where did he go?  Why is he—”

“Calm down, little one.  Your brother will be back soon.  Maybe.”

“What?  How is that supposed to make me calm down?!  James might…he…what if he...”  It took everything Richard had to not burst into panicked tears.  God, he was so pathetic.  Pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic—

There was a knock on the window, and Richard looked up to see his brother smiling through the glass and waving.  “James!” Richard exclaimed, clawing at the window in an attempt to get out and join his brother.

The driver who was possibly but probably not named Humphrey unlocked the door, and Jim slid into the car and sat down next to Richard, who immediately situated himself on Jim’s lap and nuzzled into his neck.  Richard decided that even if Jim had rudely slammed the door on his face and walked away without an explanation, all was forgiven, because Jim had come back, and that’s what was important. 

“Hey, Richie,” Jim whispered, holding his brother close.  “Did you miss me?”

“Uh-huh,” Richard admitted.

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” Jim said, smiling at Richard.  “But I brought you something.  A treat for being such a good brother.”

“Really?”  Richard said, amazed.  He was just getting showered with gifts today.

“Here,” Jim said, placing a plastic shopping bag in Richard’s lap.  Richard reached inside and pulled out a thick hardcover of Anderson’s Fairy Tales, the title embossed in gold.  His mouth fell open.

“It’s beautiful, James,” Richard whispered, the reverence thick in his voice.  “Thank you.”  He pulled Jim closer to him and kissed him, hoping that could do something to convey his gratitude; when Jim smiled against his lips and ran his tongue over Richard’s teeth, Richard decided he had made the right move.

“I remembered they were your favorite when we were little,” Jim murmured.  “I thought when we get home, you could read your favorites to me?”

“Oh, James, that sounds wonderful.”

Jim smiled at the thick happiness in Richard’s voice and kissed his forehead.  “At least someone knows how to make me feel appreciated.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, Richie.”

“Oh, okay.” 

After a few gentle strokes along the length of his arm, Richard had completely forgotten that only minutes before, he had felt the possibility of his brother’s death run deep in his bones.  He sighed against his brother and broke the spine of his new toy, flipping its pages until he found the story he was looking for.

“This one is my favorite,” Richard announced, his finger pointing to the top of the page.  The words “The Little Match Girl” spilled out from beneath his hand.

“Is it?” Jim murmured against Richard’s ear.  “We should read it last, then.”

So Richard folded into the caverns of Jim’s body and kissed him and found himself absolutely bubbling over with happiness.  He couldn’t possibly imagine a lovelier moment than the one that was washing over him, and he couldn’t possibly imagine a lovelier future.  Jim had given him stories to tell. 


End file.
